Highland Ballad | Page 8

and happy. She could not quite pull it off, but thankfully, the old woman's mind was elsewhere.
"It is done," she mumbled in reply, as much to herself as to the girl. Laying her things absently on the table, she pulled loose the comb which bound the iron-grey locks behind her head, and shook them free about her shoulders. At this simple act Mary drew a startled breath, and it was all she could do to suppress a gasp of fright. For here, truly, was the classic apparition of a witch: the ragged, wind-blown dress and shawl, the long, wild hair and intent, burning eyes. This, the woman noticed.
"Not much to look at, am I?" At first she glared as she said this, then turned away, remembering to whom she spoke. "There was a time, Mary, and perhaps not so long ago as you might imagine, when men said I was still quite fair. But time. . .and poison. . .have done their work." She grew silent, and bitter, once more. But something inside the girl urged her now to draw the woman out, not leave her alone in this darkness.
She got down from the bed and stepped timidly towards her. Placing one hand on her shoulder, with the other she lifted a stray lock of her mother's hair and tucked it gently behind her ear. The witch pulled forward and away, but Mary persisted. She came close again, and this time put her arms around her full, and kissed her lightly on the temple.
"Mother," she said, the word arresting the other's anger. "Won't you tell me how it was for you, all these years, and what you're feeling now?"
"What does it matter, girl? The wine is drawn and must be drunk." But ominous as these words sounded, her daughter brushed them aside. Because now, her eyes clouding with tears, she understood what was taking place in her own heart: an orphan's awkward and tremulous love for her true parent.
"But it does matter," she insisted, "to you. And to me."
Their eyes met. For a moment Mary thought the woman would weep, and embrace her, and all would be well. But the aged eyes knew no more tears. She turned away.
"All right, Mary, I'll tell you, though I've little doubt you will stop me halfway. But just now I'm exhausted. If you really want to help me, put on the kettle for tea, and bring me a rye cake. The weather is turning," she went on, rubbing her arthritic shoulder. "We'll have no visitors tonight, at least. There'll be hours of time for talk."
"Promise me, then. Tonight you'll open your heart?" Her mother gave a queer sort of laugh.
"What little is left of it. Yes, yes, child, I promise. Now bring me the tea and give me a moment's peace." Mary did as she asked. Six
That same afternoon a single rider approached the steward's cottage, in which now only Michael's mother remained. Hearing hoofbeats, she went quickly to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains. Though this woman had little left to lose, she was concerned almost in spite of herself for the safety of her niece. And in her darkened frame of mind, she could not help but fear the worst.
A British officer, seated on a majestic bay stallion, slowed his horse to a loose trot and drew rein just beyond the porch. This in itself did not seem such a threat. It could mean anything: some kind of summons, a requisition for cavalry horses and supplies (which they did not have), or simply a saddle-weary officer wanting a drink to soothe his parched throat.
But when she opened the door at his ringing, impatient knock, she took a step back in astonishment, and it was only with difficulty that she preserved a veneer of resignation and indifference.
She saw before her Mary's face. It was broader, and infinitely masculine---framed in strong and curling black hair, the green eyes fierce beneath scowling brows. But it was the same green, the hair the same shimmering black. Identical too was the fair, unmarked complexion, the smooth and finely chiseled nose and chin. Something in the shape was dissimilar, yet still.....
She could not at first read the riddle, until with an arrogance that could never have come from her niece, he threw back the door and advanced upon her, driving her back into the passage.
"So, my good widow Scott. You recognize the son of your esteemed overlord, and perhaps were expecting him as well?"
"No, truly sir. I don't know what you mean." It was not necessary to feign surprise. She could not imagine what the son of the Lord Purceville could want of her.
"I don't have time for games!" he shouted, pushing past her and searching the adjacent rooms before returning to stand before her.