Highland Ballad | Page 8

had only just rolled back the carpet when she heard,
muffled but distinct, the cry of the hawk high above. And she knew,
somehow she knew, that her mother was coming back up the path.
She undressed again quickly, down to the slip, and was careful to set
the dress back on the chair as it had lain before. Climbing back into the
bed she was acutely aware of two sensations: the lump at the small of
her back made by the book, and the pounding of her heart.
The door-latch was lifted, the hinges creaked, and her mother stepped
into the room. She looked exhausted and grim, and seemed to take no
notice as her daughter sat up in the bed and addressed her.
"I'm feeling much better," she said, trying to sound bright 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