Of course there was no loch monster, but it did sound all too true that a disaster had befallen Alasdair’s family there. And what was that all about—the laird’s mother not doing anything for the castle’s children? How would Sheila even know that, or make the claim, given that Alasdair’s mother, Gormelia, had been dead some fifteen years? And . . . was Sheila referring to Gormelia’s own children as well?
Into Fiona’s head came an uncannily clear image of the portrait she’d viewed earlier that day, that of the two little boys, one with dark-red hair, the other with bright yellow-blond hair. Surely he was Alasdair’s older brother, lost to the loch along with their mother and father?
She remembered, then, that excursion to the Keep o’ the Mòr, and Alasdair recalling cheerfully, I spent many a night as a lad camping up here with friends. She had seen how, unexpectedly, the laughter had gone from his face, to be taken over by a look of haunting sadness—and just as quickly been replaced by a smile.
Now she wondered if Alasdair’s brother had been part of those enjoyable long-ago nights at the Keep, and if the memory had caused him pain—
Her musings were interrupted by Isobel saying, “Such an odd little creature! And those eyes! So unsettling! Still, her birthday—I could sew her a wee stuffed doll, do you think she would like that? I have just the right scrap of fabric for a little gown, and some narrow lace for the hem.”
“Yes, I think Sheila would love a doll, Cousin, how kind of you,” answered Fiona, a little absently, but touched by Isobel’s thoughtfulness.
“I’m so glad you agree! Oh, my dear, speaking of gowns, I had the strangest dream just now. I was sixteen, and I was wearing the white silk gown Papa allowed me to have for my debut, with the skirt draped à la polonaise, and the prettiest striped caraco in the world, with long sleeves and three rows of ruffles! It was the very one I wore when I met Captain Murdoch, you know.”
“Captain Murdoch? Do I know him?”
“Oh! No, you wouldn’t. I do try not to talk about him. It was just that silly dream of mine that reminded me.”
The quavery note had returned to Isobel’s voice, and Fiona looked at her curiously. Her cousin had long seemed to be an open book: someone whose rampant garrulousness could never conceal anything. And yet here was—as it were—a new paragraph revealed.
Not a happy one, clearly.
Fiona hesitated. She didn’t wish to pry. But then Isobel said suddenly:
“Dreams are so odd, aren’t they? In my dream I had the merest glimpse of Captain Murdoch, and then he was gone. Just like in real life. It was only for a while—for such a little while—that we were betrothed.”
“Betrothed? But only temporarily?”
“Yes. On the very eve of the wedding, Father discovered that Captain Murdoch had—well, he had a great many debts, which none of us knew about.” Isobel smoothed out her skirts with punctilious care, and Fiona watched as a single tear rolled slowly down her cousin’s soft white cheek. “I told Father it didn’t bother me, that thanks to a legacy from an aunt I had more than enough money for the both of us! But he told Jimmie—that is, Captain Murdoch—that although he would permit the marriage, he refused to settle the debts. He held all my money in trust, for I was not yet of age. And—the next morning Jimmie was gone. I never saw him again, nor heard from him.”
Fiona drew a deep breath, and said with a new softness: “I didn’t know, Cousin. I’m very sorry. Surely you—you had other offers?”
Isobel smiled faintly. “Oh yes, but somehow—I don’t know how it was, but somehow I could never like anyone quite as well as I liked my Jimmie. And so time passed, and my parents died, and I stayed on in our house. Of course I kept myself busy, but—well, how happy I was when you came to visit me, my dear! And you only eighteen! How much fun we had, didn’t we? And then there was Logan! So charming! That is—until he—oh dear—”
“Goodness!” Fiona interrupted with a brisk, bright, inauthentic affability. Softness fled, leaving in its wake a sudden raw feeling of desolation; into her heart had crept again that secret stony feeling. “Only look at the time! How late it is!” Quickly she stood. “I’m to bed, Cousin. If you’ll excuse me? I hope you sleep well. Good night.”
Without waiting for a reply, Fiona left the Great Drawing-room. Her steps were graceful and dignified, she told herself, not ignominious scuttling. No, she wasn’t running away. Not like some people did . . .
It wasn’t long before she was in bed, hopelessly wide awake.