Page 46 of Laird of Twilight
“I would speak to him too, of course.” He was eager to meet Donal MacArthur.
She tilted her head. “You are not interested in proving the truth of fairies, although your grandmother wanted to do that.”
He shrugged to admit it. “I prefer truth to fancy. You are sure you saw such agates in the hills above this house?”
“I believe so. I was young then. Years ago I went with my grandfather. This property used to belong to the MacArthurs before your grandfather acquired it. There was no wall or grotto then on the hillside. I saw a beautiful blue stone,” she murmured, “that Grandda left there because he felt it should stay in its own place. It is poor manners to take what belongs to the fairies, so they say,” she added.
“This place is rife with fairy magic. It is hard to avoid it, I think.”
“There are many tales in this glen. One tradition says that it is disrespectful to alter a fairy site with building or digging, and wrong to take away something that belongs to them. You must have come across such legends in your own work if you study natural sites and must dig about.”
“Of course I know, like most Scots, that fairies are associated with hills, water bodies, stone circles, caves, and so on. One wonders what isnota fairy site.”
“Scoff if you like, sir,” she said, but smiled a little. “The hill behind Struan House was altered, and it is lovely—but I assure you the fairy ilk are displeased.”
“They have not made much fuss about it so far.”
“They have a very long memory for a grudge. If they put your kin under a curse for changing their fairy hill, your kin might have lost lands or fortunes, have sudden deaths in the family, and no children born to continue the line, and so on.”
“Sounds grim.”
“Oh, aye.” She gave him a wise, certain nod.
“How fortunate fairies are only imagination. We need not worry.”
She slid him a sour look and strolled away, pausing by the fireplace to hold her hands to the warmth. She glanced above the mantel. “Such a wonderful painting.”
He joined her to look at the landscape painting hung in an ornate gilt frame. “This was a favorite of my grandmother’s.” The design seemed a bit busy to him, trees and clouds on a windy and moonlit night. He had never paid much attention to it.
“Lovely detail,” she said, gazing at it. “I have seen this before, when Grandda and I would visit here to chat with Lady Struan. Look at the dancers, the white horses, the magical light.” She turned to look up at him, smiling. “You have a fairy painting in your very proper library, sir.”
“Fairies? I thought it was just trees and such.” The sweeping moonlit landscape showed dark, silver-edged clouds and billowing trees. The artist’s hand was adept, with a talent for delicate detail. The moor and woodland seemed deserted, but at second glance, he saw horses and riders. Now he noticed a few people dancing, wearing gossamer veils, moving in a glow of light. In the distance, figures in sparkling cloaks moved on horseback between the trees.
“An imaginative artist,” he said.
“My father painted it,” she said quietly. “Niall MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”
James looked at her in surprise. “Your father! You never mentioned. I had not heard that a local artist did the painting. It has been here since I was a boy.”
“My father was a gifted artist, and painted this before I was born, so Grandda said, around the time my great-grandfather sold the estate to your grandfather. During the Clearances, my great-grandfather was trying to help his people with the sale, and was glad that the estate would go to a Scotsman rather than an Englishman, I think. He was sad to sell it, so I have been told.”
James nodded. “I came across the record of sale among my grandmother’s papers. I noticed it was dated the year that I was born. Your father is gone from Kilcrennan now?”
“I never knew him, or my mother. My grandfather raised me from infancy.”
Murmuring in sympathy, James felt deeply touched. “I lost my parents when I was eight years old,” he said. “My sister and my brothers and I were taken from our home in Perthshire and separated, sent to the care of relatives. My great-aunt, Lady Rankin—you met her—raised me and Fiona in Edinburgh. We are twins.”
“Twins! That must be lovely, to have a sibling so close.” Elspeth tilted her head, her gaze warm. “So we are both orphans. We have that in common.”
“I hope we have happier things in common than that,” he said wryly.
“I liked your sister very much,” she added. “I am glad you and your siblings had each other during those difficult years.”
“Thank you. Fiona liked you as well.” That night in Edinburgh, Fiona had agreed with Sir Walter Scott that James should seek out Elspeth MacArthur again. Both of them had hoped that might prove a match, he recalled.
“Thank you for telling me something about your past. I think you do not like people to know much about you.”
“Safety in secrets,” he agreed.
