60 The Duchess Disappeared Read online

  Author’s Note

  The question which is so often asked about the tartan is, who is entitled to wear it? Strictly speaking the answer is that only those whose families possess tartans of their own Clan historically have a right to assume them. But, as this rule is broken by a vast majority, there is no likelihood of it being generally accepted.

  In 1746 an Act was passed by the English making it illegal for Highlanders either to own or to carry arms. A year later the Dress Act was passed, making it an offence for any man or boy ‘to wear or put on the clothes conveniently called Highland clothes, that is to say the plaid, philabeg or little kilt, trowse, shoulder belt or any part whatsoever of what peculiarly belongs to the Highland garb’.

  For thirty-five years the hated Act remained on the statute book and the tartan was worn legally only by the Army. It was repealed in 1783, but it was first George IV and then Queen Victoria who found Scotland and Scottish dress so fascinating.

  Once settled in Aberdeenshire, the Queen gave full rein to her interest in everything that concerned Highland life and Balmoral Castle was a riot of tartan.

  The herbs mentioned in this story are those prescribed by the greatest herbalist of all time, Nickolas Culpepper.

  Chapter One

  1870

  Fiona chopped up the herbs on the table in front of her until they were very small and then put them in a pan of water and set it on the old range which had been cleaned and polished until it looked comparatively new.

  Everything in the kitchen seemed to shine, in spite of the fact that the room was old-fashioned with heavy beams across the ceiling.

  These were hung with a large bunch of onions, a ham and in the corner a duck that had been shot yesterday by one of the neighbouring farmers.

  “I’ve brought you this, Miss Windham,” he had said to Fiona in a somewhat embarrassed manner, “as I thinks it’d make a nice meal for the little ’un.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Jarvis,” Fiona had replied, knowing that his consideration was not for Mary-Rose but for herself.

  She was well aware that she was greatly admired by the younger farmers in the neighbourhood, although they treated her with far too much respect to say so.

  As silent tribute they brought her rabbits, pigeons, pieces of lamb and sometimes, in season, a pheasant or a brace of partridges.

  Betsy usually accorded them scant ceremony when they came to the back door and, when Fiona remonstrated with her, saying how kind it was of them to trouble, she would snort derisively.

  “We’d starve to death, Mary-Rose and me, if it wasn’t for your pretty face!” she would say and Fiona laughingly had to acknowledge that that was the truth.

  Betsy had gone down to the village shop to make some small purchases they required and Fiona, eying the brightly coloured feathers of the duck, thought that when Betsy cooked it in her own inimitable fashion, they would enjoy every mouthful.

  She was wondering which of her varied recipes Betsy would choose on this occasion, when there came a loud knock on the front door.

  It was so loud that Fiona suspected that whoever was outside had been pulling the bell for some time.

  As this had been broken for several months, as was well known to everybody in the neighbourhood, she guessed that the caller, whoever it might be, was a stranger.

  ‘Bother!’ she said to herself.

  She moved the pan to the side of the range, knowing that the one thing she must not do with herbs was to let the water boil.

  That would take the goodness out of them, as she had told Betsy often enough, although the old woman would not listen to her and did everything her own way.

  ‘Always when I am busy somebody calls,’ Fiona thought testily.

  Taking off the apron with which she had covered her pretty gown, she walked along the passage to the front of the house, tidying her hair as she went.

  The house was very old, dating back to Elizabethan times and her sister and brother-in-law had removed a great deal of the hideous decorations and additions that had been carried out over the centuries.

  Now the walls were white as they must have been when the house was first built and the paint had been scraped off the ancient ships’ timbers, which the house had been built with.

  The carved oak staircase now looked as it had when it was finished by the hand of some fine craftsman.

  The beauty of it always pleased Fiona every time she stepped into the hall and she was appreciating it in some part of her mind even as she pulled open the front door.

  Standing outside was a middle-aged man, neatly if not very fashionably dressed and behind him was a carriage drawn by two horses.

  Is this the house of the late Lord Ian Rannock?” he enquired.

  Fiona inclined her head.

  “It is!”

  “Then I wish to speak to whoever is looking after his daughter.”

  “I am Miss Fiona Windham and Mary-Rose is my niece.”

  She thought the man she was speaking to looked surprised, but he answered with only a very brief pause,

  “I am delighted to meet you, Miss Windham. May I speak to you in private? My name is Angus McKeith.”

  Fiona opened the door a little wider.

  “Please come in, Mr. McKeith.”

  As she spoke, she realised that his accent was Scottish.

  However, it was faint and she knew that he was an educated man and undoubtedly a gentleman.

  She closed the front door and, as he put his hat and travelling cape down on a chair, she walked across the hall and opened the door of the drawing room.

  It was a very attractive room, low-ceilinged, with diamond-paned windows looking out onto the rose garden which lay at the back of the house. Beyond was the herb garden, which Fiona tended as her sister Rosemary had done before she died.

  There were a comfortable sofa, low armchairs and flowers on almost every table which scented the room with a fragrance that mingled with the smell of the beeswax with which the floor and the ancient oak furniture were polished.

  “Do sit down, Mr. McKeith,” Fiona invited, indicating a chair beside the mantelpiece and seating herself in one that stood opposite.

  She then sat waiting, wondering as she did so what this Scotsman had to impart and already feeling a little apprehensive of what he might say.

  “May I first, Miss Windham, express my deep sympathy on the death of Lord Ian and – of course – your sister.”

  Mr. McKeith spoke the last two words with a slight hesitation and in a way that instinctively made Fiona stiffen.

  Now she was sure that she knew why he was here and who he came from.

  Because she knew that his statement required an answer, she said quietly,

  “Thank you for your sympathy. It was a terrible shock.”

  “I can understand that,” Mr. McKeith said. “It happened, I know, over a year ago, but you will appreciate that news takes some time to reach Scotland and there have been many adjustments to be made owing to Lord Ian’s death.”

  “What adjustments?” Fiona asked bluntly.

  Mr. McKeith hesitated for a moment and obviously considered his words before he replied,

  “I expect, Miss Windham, that you are aware that under Scottish Law, unlike the English, a woman can inherit both the title and the estates of the Head of the Family.”

  If he had intended to startle Fiona he certainly succeeded.

  Her blue eyes were very large in her face as she exclaimed,

  “That cannot be true!”

  “I can assure you it is,” Mr. McKeith replied.

  “Then it means – ” Fiona faltered.

  “That Mary-Rose is now heir-presumptive to her uncle, the Duke of Str
athrannock!”

  Fiona gave a little gasp as if words failed her and after a moment Mr. McKeith continued,

  “You will, of course, appreciate that this means an alteration in everything that has concerned the child until now.”

  “Why?”

  Again the question was abrupt.

  “That must be obvious, Miss Windham,” Mr. McKeith replied. “As long as Lord Ian was alive, the fact that he had a daughter was not of particular interest since, as he was a young man, there was every likelihood of his having a son and perhaps more than one.”

  “The fact that Lord Ian was heir-presumptive to his brother,” Fiona remarked, “made little difference during his lifetime, since after his marriage to my sister he was completely ostracised by his family.”

  “It was, of course, a very unfortunate state of affairs.”

  Mr. McKeith spoke drily, but she sensed that he meant to be sympathetic.

  “Extremely unfortunate,” she replied, “and not only was my brother-in-law deeply hurt by the behaviour first of his father and then of his brother, but the insult to my sister was unforgiveable.”

  “I can understand only too well what you felt, Miss Windham,” Mr. McKeith said, “but what happened is in the past and we now have to think of your niece, Mary-Rose.”

  “In what way?”

  “The Duke wishes her to come to Scotland immediately.”

  “That is impossible.”

  “Why?” Mr. McKeith asked.

  “Because Mary-Rose has always lived here. This is her home, where she was extremely happy with her parents. As the late Duke cut off all communication with his son and Lord Ian’s brother continued in the same way, his wishes are of no particular interest to Mary-Rose or to me.”

  “You have constituted yourself her Guardian?” Mr. McKeith enquired.

  “There was no one else to look after her when both her parents were killed,” Fiona answered.

  “That I understand, but I think you will find that, as Mary-Rose is now the Duke’s heir-presumptive, he is legally her Guardian.”

  “Considering that Mary-Rose is now eight years old,” Fiona retorted, “and the Duke has never made the slightest effort to see her nor shown any interest in her, I very much doubt if any English Judge would give him the Guardianship of her.”

  “English Judge?” Mr. McKeith queried. “As you are aware, Miss Windham, Mary-Rose is a Scot. The case, if it should unfortunately come to Court, would be heard in Edinburgh.”

  Fiona’s lips tightened and she asked with a cry in her voice,

  “How can the Duke want to take Mary-Rose to Scotland? And why does he want her there? Why does he not have a child of his own? He is a young man.”

  There was silence and Fiona knew that Mr. McKeith was debating whether he should tell her something, but was not certain if it was the right thing for him to do.

  She waited, her eyes dark and stormy, staring at the man opposite her.

  “Your brother-in-law must have informed you, Miss Windham,” Mr. McKeith said after a moment, “that the Duke is married.”

  “But I thought the Duchess was dead.”

  “Her Grace disappeared eight years ago, only three years after her marriage and her body has never been found. Until it is, the Duke is legally a married man.”

  “Can that really be so?” Fiona questioned. “I remember Ian telling me that his brother was married to a woman chosen for him by his father and that he was extremely unhappy. But I thought he was free now.”

  “It is a very unfortunate situation, as you can appreciate, but His Grace accepts that it is impossible for him to marry again and therefore at the moment Mary-Rose is not only his heir but the future Chieftain of the Clan.”

  Fiona clenched her hands together in an effort to control her voice as she said,

  “Do you realise that if the Duke had made this clear when his brother was alive, it would have brought him the only thing that was missing to make his happiness complete?”

  Mr. McKeith did not speak and she went on,

  “My brother-in-law was deeply hurt – indeed the right word should be ‘wounded’ – by the fact that his brother, when he inherited, made no attempt to get in touch with him and indeed carried on the feud that had existed between Lord Ian and his father.”

  “The Scots are very strait-laced; Miss Windham,” Mr. McKeith said, “and you must know that to them, Lord Ian’s secret impetuous marriage when he was so young was a crime not only against his immediate family but against the whole Clan.”

  “That is nonsense!” Fiona exclaimed. “The Duke is only a few years older than Lord Ian and it was to be expected that he would produce an heir. Afterwards, when it was announced in the newspapers that the Duchess was lost and supposed dead, it was obvious that he would marry again.”

  She paused and added,

  “I remember my brother-in-law saying, I do hope Aiden will now find someone with whom he will be as happy as I am.”

  “Lord Ian must have misunderstood the situation. It may seem obvious that the Duchess is dead, but, although there have been extensive searches and every possible clue to her whereabouts has been investigated, she still has to be proved dead and that appears to be an impossibility”

  “It seems quite absurd to me,” Fiona remarked sharply.

  “It is nevertheless a fact in law,” Mr. McKeith insisted.

  “So now, after all these years of indifference, the Duke wishes Mary-Rose to leave her home and everything that is familiar to journey to Scotland?” Fiona asked.

  “She will have a very warm welcome, Miss Windham, and I should perhaps tell you that it is the members of the Clan themselves who have asked to see her, and who wish her to be brought up in Scotland, understanding the history and traditions of the Rannocks.”

  “And doubtless to be indoctrinated with their feuds and cruelties to one another,” Fiona said. “How can anyone trust a family who could cut one of their members out of their lives simply because he married a woman they did not approve of?”

  “That question can only be answered by His Grace,” Mr. McKeith replied quietly.

  “Then perhaps he should come here so that I can ask him personally what he has to say about it,” Fiona answered.

  She saw Mr. McKeith’s eyes look at her questioningly and she explained,

  “I have no intention of allowing Mary-Rose to go to Scotland and certainly not alone, if that is what you intend.”

  Her voice was hot with anger and Mr. McKeith replied quietly,

  “My instructions, Miss Windham, are to convey Mary-Rose and her nurse or Governess to Rannock Castle.”

  “She has neither!” Fiona snapped.

  “Then the obvious person to accompany her there must be you, Miss Windham!”

  Mr. McKeith’s statement was so startling that Fiona stiffened and was very still.

  Then, as she stared at him, her eyes dark with anger and very wide in her oval-shaped face, he smiled in a manner that seemed for the moment to illuminate his expression.

  “I shall be interested, Miss Windham,” he said, “to see if, when the time comes, you will put your case concerning Mary-Rose as bravely to His Grace as you have just put it to me.”

  His words seemed to release some of the tension that had held Fiona captive.

  “I shall not be afraid of the Duke, if that is what you are insinuating, Mr. McKeith,” she replied, “and let me make it clear, I am concerned only with the happiness of my niece, a condition which I beg leave to doubt she will find at Rannock Castle.”

  “That of course remains to be seen, but I would be greatly obliged, Miss Windham, if we could start our journey to Scotland as quickly as possible.”

  Fiona rose to her feet and walked across the room to stand at the window and look out into the garden.

  She felt as if her mind was in a turmoil.

  She had never expected for one moment that such a thing might happen. Because she had hated the Duke and all the Rannocks who
had treated her brother-in-law so badly, she had found it wiser to make Scotland a barred subject.

  Yet sometimes she had known that Ian yearned irrepressibly for the land of his birth.

  When August in England was hot and airless and the garden was wilting for want of moisture, she had known by the expression in his eyes that he was thinking of the mists on the hills, of the grouse winging their way over the heather and of the burns tumbling down the glens in a silver cascade.

  It was then that she would notice that her sister would be more gentle and if possible more loving than at other times, trying, Fiona was aware, to make up to her husband for all that he had given up for her.

  It seemed impossible that the feud, as Fiona called it, should have continued for eight years from the moment Ian had said that he was going to marry Rosemary until he and his wife had been killed in a train accident.

  At the time it had seemed an adventure to travel to London by train instead of, as they had done for years, by carriage, Ian driving with an expertise that had made Fiona long for him to have better and more expensive horseflesh.

  He had in fact seemed completely content with what he possessed and never showed in any way that he regretted giving up his connection with the great castle and the huge estate known as Rannock Land for a small English manor house standing in a few acres.

  It was true, Fiona had often told herself, that no two people had ever been as happy as Ian Rannock and Fiona’s sister.

  He had fallen in love – and she had heard the story so often – when he had least expected it and in the most unlikely circumstances.

  “I was walking down Bond Street when it began to rain,” he had related to Fiona. “I looked for a Hackney carriage, but, of course, there was not one to be seen. The rain looked like it was becoming a torrent, so I sought shelter in a doorway, wondering how long I would be marooned there.”

  He always paused at this point as if to make it more dramatic.

  It was then that I heard the strains of music and realised that somebody was playing a piano. It was so beautiful and at the same time seemed so insistent that I started to listen. Then I saw that I was standing in the doorway of a Concert Hall. The rain was still teeming down so I decided I could well pass the time by listening to the music.”