Chill (9 page)

The man spoke first. “What do you want?”

“We’re from Dunadd. The house up on the hill?”

The man looked at them suspiciously. “Oh aye? And what are you doing here?”

“We came to see a Mr MacFarlane.”

“You’re looking at ‘im.”

“Oh good. You see, we … we’ve come for a reason …”

“Have ye now?” was all he said in reply.

“We need to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Well, it’s a bit difficult really …” Samuel began.

“Ach, it’s not that mother of yours again? Thinks she owns the whole moor. Well, I’m tellin’ ye now, she doesn’t own this bit of it.”

Fiona cut in, deciding it was best to get straight to the point. “My mother doesn’t know we’re here, Mr MacFarlane. We have a ghost at Dunadd, a weeping woman who paces the corridors.” Mr MacFarlane appeared to be listening intently. “Samuel has heard her, and a figure has been seen up at the windows of Dunadd.”

“Aye. I’ve seen her.”

Fiona and Samuel stared at him.

“When?”

“When the family’s been away in the past. At first I wondered if it was maybe Mrs Hughes cleaning. The figure just stands there at the drawing room windows, a woman in a long blue gown.”

“That’s her,” Samuel said.

“We found some pages of a journal belonging to a girl called Catherine Morton.”

The old man looked up, his eyes glinting. He seemed intrigued by this.

“And a little leather bag in our library,” Fiona went on, “an old relic of some kind which we thought might be connected to her. It contained a ring wrapped in a piece of Jacobite tartan.”

Mr MacFarlane didn’t seem at all surprised by this news,
and merely nodded. “You’d better come in,” and he led the way into his dark farmhouse, into a low-roofed kitchen with blackened beams on the ceiling.

They pulled up chairs at a big wooden table, and Mr MacFarlane proceeded to fill a kettle for tea.

“So it’s the past ye’re wanting to dig up now, is it? To find out some of the secrets they don’t discuss at Dunadd? I guess that after all these years you Mortons had been hoping they’d be forgotten, hey?”

“Forgotten? What secrets?”

Mr MacFarlane sighed and said: “You’ve never heard about it then? Aye, I wondered ….” He took a deep breath. “It’s a love story, I suppose. A tragic tale. A Morton woman from Dunadd fell in love with a MacFarlane from Lynns Farm about three hundred years ago. It could only end in tragedy of course, and that’s exactly what happened.”

“I’ve never heard this story before,” Fiona said uncertainly.

Mr MacFarlane gave a bitter laugh. “Have ye not?”

He laughed again. “Ach, well, I suppose it’s only to be expected.”

“What is?”

“It’s what the Mortons would have wanted, for the story to disappear without trace, but your weeping woman wouldn’t leave them alone. She cannit rest until her story is resolved and the family make amends.”

“Amends for what?” Fiona cried, confused.

“For forbidding her to love a common farmer, and killing her into the bargain.”

A shocked silence fell, and Mr MacFarlane turned his back on them and began to pour boiling water into a teapot.

“Does my mother know about this?” Fiona repeated dumbly.

Mr MacFarlane watched her in silence.

“What type of a ring was it you found?” he asked instead.

“It’s silver, twisted into a lover’s knot, with a Celtic pattern engraved on it. Very simple and beautiful.”

He nodded again, sagely. “Aye, that’s the one.” Then he poured cups of tea and took his place at the table with a great sigh.

“So you found a journal then?”

“Not the whole thing. We found some pages torn from it. It was written by a twelve-year-old girl, Catherine Morton.”

Mr MacFarlane shook his head in amazement. “That’s her! I never knew there was a journal,” he whispered in awe. “I’d like to see it, if I may?”

Fiona and Samuel nodded, relieved that the old man was proving to be not nearly as terrifying as they’d imagined. “There’s a story in my family, passed down through the generations,” he began. “An ancestor of mine in 1714 or thereabouts, fell in love with a Morton woman from the Dunadd estate. She was Catherine, the youngest child of the laird, Sir Charles Morton. Patrick MacFarlane worked as a stable boy at Dunadd and they’d become close as children, running about the moor together all day long, to the horror of Catherine’s parents. When they grew up, they fell in love.”

“What happened to them?” Samuel asked.

“The Mortons found out, and she was punished.”

“How was she punished?” Fiona asked timidly.

“She was locked up in Dunadd, prevented from ever leaving the house again, even for a breath of fresh air.
Before that the pair used to meet in secret on the moor. They were married secretly by the waterfall. Patrick gave her the ring and swore they would be together one day and live on Sheriffmuir, enjoying it like they always had as children. Ach, well, life wasn’t as simple as all that. Catherine had two very headstrong brothers who helped to enforce their father’s will. They followed her one day to their secret meeting place by the waterfall. She was dragged home to Dunadd, and Patrick was severely beaten.”

“As the brothers dragged Catherine away, Patrick called after her that he would see her again. But a few weeks later the Jacobite uprising of 1715 swept the country. It led to a battle on this very moor, as you know. Catherine was desperate to see Patrick one last time, but she was locked in the house. The Mortons, of course, supported the opposing side. They helped billet some of Argyll’s officers, supplying them with food and hay for their horses.

“Patrick made up his mind to fight alongside the Highlanders on 13th November, wearing his Jacobite tartan. Catherine watched the battle from an upstairs window, including the slaughter of the Highlanders. Her own Patrick died in the fighting. The silver ring you mention has its own story to tell, for when the brothers separated the pair of lovers, one of them then withdrew the silver ring from her finger and threw it down in the mud. Patrick retrieved it and carried it with him into the field of battle – for luck, although it brought him none.”

A silence fell in the small dark kitchen, over the three silent figures at the table.

“The story goes that a servant who was sympathetic to the pair searched for Patrick’s body among the dead, and brought
back his dagger and a piece of his tartan. He also found the ring which Patrick had tried unsuccessfully to bury as he lay wounded and dying on the battlefield. It lay beside his outstretched fingers, and the servant saw it shining in the dirt. The dagger was returned to Patrick’s mother and kept in the family. The ring and the piece of tartan were delivered into Catherine’s hands, together with the information that he had died a brave and courageous death.” Mr MacFarlane sighed and looked into the shadows before continuing with his story. “She grieved for another two months, through a long and terrible winter, and then, on 13th January 1716, exactly two months to the day after the Battle of Sheriffmuir, she died giving birth to a premature boy. The baby was stillborn.”

Fiona and Samuel sat without moving, in stunned silence, horrified.

But Mr MacFarlane had not quite finished his tale. “It was sometimes said that Catherine died cursing the male line of her family, swearing she’d make sure her father and brothers would be punished for what they’d done to her. She died full of bitterness and anger.”

There was a short silence, as they sat thinking sadly of the unhappy pair.

“There were three sons living on Lynns Farm at that time. I am descended from Patrick’s brother, the only one to survive the battle. He inherited the farm from his mother, married, had children and died in his bed at the age of eighty. He told the story of his brother’s doomed love to his own children, and made sure it was passed down through the generations, as a warning against having anything to do with a Morton. That’s how I know.”

Mr MacFarlane sat looking at the two children, who were shocked into silence, and he felt a little sorry for them. “So you’d never heard tell of any of this up at Dunadd? It’s a well-known story hereabouts.”

“My parents never said anything about it!”

He nodded. “Perhaps they were trying to protect you. It’s a tragic tale for young ears to hear, right enough,” he said in a low voice. “Ach, I’m sorry you had to hear it.”

Fiona shook her head. “No. No, it’s best we did. Perhaps we can make amends, like you said, help put her ghost to rest by resolving the sufferings of the past.”

Mr MacFarlane looked at her kindly and said “The past is never resolved, my dear. It just is.”

“But ghosts can be laid to rest,” Samuel insisted.

“Drink up yer tea, son,” the old man said sadly, “before it gets cauld.”

Before they left, Fiona wanted to ask one last thing. “Why does my mother not speak to you, Mr MacFarlane?”

He looked at her and his eyes twinkled. “Apart from the past, you mean? Aye, well … various reasons.”

He sighed, and shifted in his chair. “The main one being, I didn’t want the story of Catherine Morton to be forgotten. I thought she deserved to be remembered. A historian once came sniffing around here after local ghost stories. A nice woman, she was. Wanted to include the particulars in an archive in the Museum of Scotland. Thought it would make interesting reading for later generations.”

The children listened, wide-eyed. “So I told her exactly what I’ve just told you, and she kept a record of it. It’s there in the museum archives apparently, if anyone wants to
see.” He lowered his gaze then. “Your mother didn’t agree. She didn’t want people to think that Dunadd has a ghost. She wanted to let sleeping dogs lie, and for the memory of Catherine Morton to fade.”

“Why?” Fiona said, staring at him intently.

The old man tried to avoid her eye. “Well now, a mother will always try to protect her young, will she not?”

Fiona still looked perplexed. Mr MacFarlane turned solemn for a moment.

“How do you think it would make Charles and Sebastian feel, if they knew about the story of the curse?” he said gently. “Would they still lead happy lives afterwards, do you think?”

Fiona sat still, while the significance of his words sank in. Then she stood up abruptly. “It’s just a story,” she murmured. “No one can prove it.”

Mr MacFarlane drank his tea thoughtfully, and said nothing more.

As they walked away from the farm, Samuel cast sidelong glances in Fiona’s direction. She walked with her head down, trying to digest what Mr MacFarlane had told them. He knew she was having trouble accepting what they’d just heard.

Samuel felt frustrated. They had solved the mystery of who their weeping woman was. She and the twelve-year-old Catherine Morton of the journal were one and the same, as they had always suspected, but they were no nearer to ridding Dunadd of her sad presence.

“Look, Samuel, let’s just face it,” Fiona snapped. “She’s not going to go away.” As they neared the waterfall they could hear the rush of the water tumbling beneath the snow and ice. Samuel was about to make a sharp retort, but thought better of it. He knew she was upset, and he could understand that. If he’d just found out that a curse had been placed on his family, he probably wouldn’t have been particularly pleased about it either.

“Maybe we just have to learn to live with her,” Fiona added wistfully. “Perhaps she’ll always be part of Dunadd.”

“In one sense, yes,” he murmured, “but I still think we could help her in some way.”

“I can’t believe my mum never said anything about this. She knew all along, and didn’t say a word.”

Samuel was quiet. All they could hear was the sound of the Wharry Burn. “You can’t blame her really!”

“What?” Fiona glared at him.

“Maybe she’s worried.”

Fiona looked blank. “Oh come on, Fiona. You heard what Mr MacFarlane said, about the curse she put on your family?”

She shook her head. “That’s just a story. Mr MacFarlane said so himself. Just because she died an angry woman, that doesn’t mean to say it has any effect on us now. Anyway, it’s not even true. Not all of the men in my family died young.” She hesitated, looking disturbed. “They couldn’t have, otherwise the Mortons would have died out long ago. It’s just a stupid story.” She was getting angry now.

“Yes, but what about your father?”

“What about him?” Fiona’s mood darkened.

“He died young, didn’t he? Before his time?”

“It’s just a coincidence,” Fiona said in a small frightened voice.

Samuel paused for a moment. “What if it isn’t?” he whispered.

Neither of them wanted to think about the consequences of that. Overhead, a solitary bird let out a desolate cry. They walked on, their heads bent low.

“Poor Catherine Morton.” Fiona shuddered. “She was the youngest of three children, with two older brothers.” There was a pause. “Just like me.” Fiona and Samuel looked at one another.

“Do you ever have the feeling,” Samuel murmured, “that history is repeating itself? That we’re acting out something that has already happened before?”

“How do you mean?” Fiona said in a low voice, although she already knew what he meant.

“Nothing. It’s just that … it’s almost like we’re all being programmed to re-enact stuff from the past. Me, you, Charles and Sebastian. They dragged you away and locked you in the summer house, just like the Morton brothers of long ago … it’s almost like we can’t help ourselves.”

“And that’s why Charles and Seb are behaving the way they are, you mean? That it’s part of this …” she struggled with the word, “curse thing.”

Samuel shrugged. “It’s a possibility.” There was silence for a minute, as they made their way up hill towards the white tower of Dunadd in the distance, with its long ranks of gleaming windows. There was a low mist coming down over the trees of Dunadd again, closing the place in. Patches of mist caught between the branches, and drifted close to the windows. “She died a bitter and angry woman, that’s what he said. You can almost feel it in the air. I wonder where she’s buried?”

Fiona shrugged. “With the rest of the Mortons I suppose.”

“Where’s that?”

“In the cemetery, down in the village. We have our own private chapel there and a family vault.”

Samuel lifted his head and surveyed the scene before him. “Maybe she’s not with the rest of the family. Maybe she’s here at Dunadd, the only Morton to be buried on Sheriffmuir.”

“Why would she be?”

“I don’t know, it’s just an idea.”

“So what are we going to do? Start digging?” she asked
sarcastically.

“We could ask Mr MacFarlane. Maybe he would know. I’d like to see him again, anyway.”

That afternoon Samuel stroked the dark ebony box on his desk under the window. Its surface was so intricately carved that it was knobbly to touch.

He opened it, took out the leather bag and examined the silver ring and the piece of tartan by the light of the window. The ring shone, barely tarnished at all despite its great age. As Mr MacFarlane said, if it could speak, it would have its own story to tell. It had gone with Patrick into the field of battle, and lay, half-covered with dirt, as the wounded lay dying all around him. Then it had been found and restored to Catherine, who had died and left her treasures locked up in a precious box. Who had thought to keep them safe all these years? Who had placed the things in the box, and then placed the box safely away in the library, to be forgotten and to acquire layers of dust until years later? Was it Catherine’s mother, the mother one never hears anything about, who lived in the shadow of a domineering husband and her equally domineering sons? Who knew?

Samuel lay the leaf-brown pages of the journal on his desk, and read the faded handwriting. Her words came at him out of the past.

And then he read about her friendship with Patrick.

A twelve-year-old girl learning to cope in a household full of domineering men, trying to keep her head down, suppress her own intelligence. And a mother, Lady Cecilia, who no doubt lived to regret the way her daughter was treated. A story was beginning to emerge. A very personal story, with not one but two sad women at its centre, Catherine Morton and her mother, Lady Cecilia. Catherine was a girl who had dared to defy the rules of the world in which she lived. And
she had paid a terrible price. Her brothers had thought of her as a witch at times, and she had been happy for them to think that.

After Catherine’s death, someone had kept these precious objects safe, the ring and the piece of tartan, and the ebony box she had treasured so. These things were tokens of the couple’s love for one another. It occurred to Samuel then that maybe they could eradicate the curse after all. They could use these things in any ceremony they might perform, as a way of burying the two together, or trying, at least, to put them to rest.

He thought about Catherine’s mother, Lady Cecilia. Had she grieved secretly for her lost daughter, lost in so many ways? Perhaps she too had paced the upstairs rooms, weeping long after her daughter’s death, blaming herself for what happened to her daughter.

He thought about the two lost souls, Catherine Morton and Patrick MacFarlane, who had befriended one another despite their differences. He thought of her pacing the corridors and weeping as the battle raged on the fields below; how she had watched the terrible slaughter, both sides devastated in the attack. A battle with no victors. Then he thought of the baby, born too early to survive, and how Catherine’s suffering had been inflicted by her own father and brothers. He gently gathered together the papers from the journal, and replaced them in the ebony box. He was determined to help her to rest in peace.

On a sudden impulse Samuel went outside and made his way to the front of Dunadd. He looked up at the big windows
of the drawing room. He wasn’t expecting to see anything particularly, but there she was. A figure at the window, a white face looking down at him, a sad face framed by dark hair. She wore a long navy-blue plaid gown, and now that he could see her more clearly, he realized that she did look younger than he had first thought. Bitterness had aged her prematurely perhaps in those weeks before her death. He gazed upwards. There seemed to be a knowing look on her face, as if she knew that he was standing out there on the lawn, and what he was thinking.

She fixed him with her dark eyes, nodded, and then turned away.