Eight
December 1841—Castle McCrieff,
‘But... Father... I can help... I can help you to think of ideas—’
‘Out!’
Flora McCrieff flinched at her father’s roar, but he did not raise his hand to her. This time. Her younger brother, Donald, pulled a mocking face from behind their father’s back. Father would listen to Donald’s ideas, no matter how stupid they were, simply because he was a boy and would be clan chief one day. But that didn’t make him wise...his ideas were always foolish, like the time he persuaded their two younger sisters, Aileen and Mairi, to sneak away with him to explore a wreck that had washed up in a nearby cove. He’d not even thought about the tide turning and cutting them off and if Flora hadn’t followed her instinct that something was wrong, and gone in search of them, they would all have been drowned.
Not that her father had ever acknowledged it.
She left her father’s business room without another word, shutting the heavy iron-studded door behind her. It was no use trying to change his mind once it was made up. The air in the room had swirled thick with her father’s anger and she’d sensed he was battling to rein in his temper. Better to leave before he lost control. Financial worries, made worse by the slow but steady loss of tenants—leaving the Highlands to try their luck in America and Canada—had made his temper touchier than ever.
A sense of injustice pounded in Flora’s chest. Her head was full of ideas and she knew, if only he would listen, that she could help Father find new ways to raise money for the clan and to repair Castle McCrieff, their home and the ancestral home of the McCrieffs. But no one ever paid her any attention, unless it was to order her about. It had always been that way. Lasses should be seen and not heard—one of Father’s favourite phrases and Mother never contradicted him. Not about that. Not about anything. Well, Flora knew she had more sense in her little finger than Donald had in his entire brain. At eleven, he was only a year younger than her, but when it came to common sense he was more like five years her junior.
Flora stood irresolute in the hall, which covered much of the ground floor of the keep and where a fire was kept blazing day and night, summer and winter, in the huge fireplace with its carved-stone mantel. The castle remained much the same as when it had been built, centuries ago, with a few additions. She shivered. It might be fanciful, but sometimes she imagined she could feel those people of long ago—their joys and their heartaches; their passions; their rage and their laughter—their emotions absorbed by the massive stone walls that were still hung in places with faded tapestries in the old style.
‘There y’are, Flora, lass.’ Maggie bustled from the direction of the kitchen, a tray in her hands. ‘Will ye no’ take this to your mother and your sisters for me? We’ve a mountain of food to prepare for the evening meal yet.’
Without waiting for a reply, Maggie thrust the tray, with its three bowls of broth and plate of bannocks, into Flora’s hands and hurried away. Flora sighed. She didn’t mind helping Maggie, their cook, but she was so tired of being overlooked by everyone.
When I am married I will be a fine lady. I will rule my household and everyone will pay attention to me and marvel at my ideas and have respect for me.
It was a favourite daydream of hers. Father was an earl and, as the eldest daughter, she would marry a man of her own station, which would mean she would be a countess or even higher. Maybe even a duchess.
She trod carefully up the stairs, heading for her mother’s sitting room, where her little sisters were keeping warm as they recovered from influenza. They were much better now, but lacked the energy to do much other than sit by the fire while Mother read to them.
The bowls of broth safely delivered, Flora left the room and then hesitated. It was bone-chillingly cold outside, with a brisk wind blowing ragged clouds in off the sea. If she went downstairs, for certain Maggie would find something to keep her busy, but that resentment at her father’s dismissal of her still lingered, making her restless. She turned away from the staircase and wandered along the passageway, pausing at a window to gaze out over the hills to the east. It was a majestic view, but a lonely one. She pulled her woollen shawl closer around her shoulders as a shiver coursed across her skin.
A movement from below attracted her attention—Father, clad in his black greatcoat, striding for the stables, followed by Donald, his shorter legs scurrying in an attempt to keep up with Father’s longer stride. Bitterness scoured Flora’s throat. Donald always got to do the interesting things. He was always toadying up to Father and he was always putting Flora down. He was jealous of her, that’s what he was. She flung away from the window and the unfairness of life before running blindly down the passageway.
She rounded a corner and then, slightly breathless, halted in front of the door that led into the Great Tower. It was forbidden. It was always kept locked and, in her memory, only Father—and his father before him—had ever gone inside. It was unsafe, he said, and not even the servants were allowed to enter. But Flora knew where the key was kept, because she had seen her father take it from a wooden chest set in a window embrasure further along the passage. And she had watched as Father had gone inside. That was last year and she had thought nothing of it at the time but, recently, when she had been out riding her pony, she had glimpsed a man at the window right at the top of the tower. Her heart had nigh on stopped in terror, but then he had swept a hand over his