WRENS headquarters
TWO WEEKS AFTER Luc and Alair’s wedding, Niki received a note from Phoebe Montrose, Fraser’s mother. It was written on stationery from the McPherson Arms Hotel, and the handwriting was both strong and refined.
Eraser has written so glowingly of your meeting and the gracious hospitality shown him at Mrs. Devlin’s country home. I remember it so pleasantly from the time when, as a young woman, I met his father, Jonathan, there. We would be so happy if you were able to arrange to accompany Eraser home sometime soon.
Looking forward to that occasion,
I am yours most cordially,
Phoebe McPherson Montrose
Fraser called to see if Niki had received the invitation and if she had put in for a leave of absence.
“Mum is really looking forward to meeting you.” “I hope you haven’t built me up too much. I don’t want her to be disappointed,” Niki replied dubiously.
“Me? Exaggerate? No way,” Fraser said, laughing.
Despite his assurances, Niki felt somewhat apprehensive about meeting Phoebe. Niki had created a picture in her mind of a rather austere Scotswoman, proud, independent, and capable. Left a widow with two small children at an early age, Phoebe had taken over from her uncle the management of a busy resort hotel and by all accounts had run it efficiently and profitably.
Fortunately, both Niki and Fraser were able to obtain leave that coincided. Fraser came up to London, and together they took the train to the Scottish highlands. From the small station they walked up the hilly cobblestone street to the McPherson Arms Hotel.
Phoebe greeted Niki warmly. Standing beside her tall son, Niki saw that they were very alike, at least in coloring. Phoebe’s dark auburn hair was generously sprinkled with silver, but she had a smile that made her appear charmingly youthful. Simply dressed in a tweed skirt and cabled wool cardigan, she looked almost too young to be Fraser’s mother. Her welcome was matched by that of his younger sister, Fiona, who was a graceful, slender girl with a blaze of beautiful flame-colored hair.
That evening there was a supper and dance, a small clan gathering held at the hotel, at which Niki had a chance to meet what seemed to her like dozens of Fraser’s cousins. Every male had worn Highland dress, and Niki saw Fraser for the first time in kilt and tartan. He wore the vivid blue, green, and yellow Montrose-Graham plaid, while Phoebe’s long skirt, worn with a black velvet jacket, displayed the McPherson colors. Fiona was the belle of the ball, Niki observed, claimed for every dance. The music was loud, lively, and the skirl of bagpipes was often heard. Niki was encouraged to take part in some of the traditional dances and was surprised to see that Fraser could do all of them with ease.
On Sunday they all attended church at the tiny, gray stone kirk where, Phoebe confided, she had been married to Jonathan Montrose. When they came outside after the service, a light mist was falling. It gave everything a blurred, unreal look. While Phoebe lingered to talk to the pastor and other friends, Fiona was surrounded by a group of young men.
“Come, I want to show you something,” Fraser said, taking Niki’s arm. He led her over to the entrance to the graveyard that adjoined the church property. They walked among the granite tombstones, reading the spare yet somehow poignant epitaphs. Many of the markers bore the name McPherson.
“I always assumed I’d be buried here with all my ancestors,” Fraser remarked. “Now that’s probably not true.”
Niki glanced at him sharply. The remark was so unlike Fraser, it shocked her. He was normally so nonchalant, so carefree. She put a quick hand out, touched his arm. Immediately the serious look faded and a smile replaced it.
“Well, I didn’t bring you out here to be gloomy. I had a sneakier reason. I wanted to give you this.” He reached inside his tunic pocket, brought out a small box, and handed it to her.
Niki held the little box in both hands, looking up at Fraser.
“Go on, open it.”
She pressed the spring and the lid popped open. Lying against purple velvet was a silver brooch, heart-shaped under an arching crown, with a small amethyst stone glistening in the center.
“Oh, Fraser, it’s lovely.”
“It seemed appropriate to give it to you here in the churchyard, in the shadow of the kirk. It’s called a luckenbooth, and it’s a traditional Scottish betrothal symbol. In the olden days couples went to church and in a special ceremony exchanged promises of their intention to be married. ‘Plighting their troth,’ it was called….” He paused. “A betrothal was considered as binding as a marriage vow.” He took the brooch out of her hands, held it for a minute, then asked, “Do you want me to pin it on?”
Niki nodded, speechless. Her own hands were too shaky to do it. Fraser fastened it on the lapel of her raincoat.
“So then, are we betrothed?” he asked. Putting one hand under her chin, he lifted it so he could search her eyes for his answer.
“Yes,” she said in a very low voice. As Fraser took her into his arms, held her tightly against him, Niki closed her eyes, and. a tear ran down her cheek. For the first time in her life she felt truly loved, truly safe, that she truly belonged.
Phoebe saw them off on the London train, loaded down with goodies from the hotel kitchen—packages of Scotch shortbread, jars of marmalade, lemon curd, butterscotch toffee. There was another box wrapped as a gift for Niki. “To be opened on the train,” Phoebe told her as she said good-bye and kissed her on both cheeks. “God bless you both!”
As the train rolled across the bridge that led out of town, Niki unwrapped her gift. It was a tartan scarf in the Montrose plaid. Tears sprang into her eyes as she fingered the fine woolen cloth. She looked at Fraser.
“Does she know about me?” she asked. “I mean, that I’m not really a Montrose, that I’m an orphan?”
Fraser put his strong arm around her shoulders, pulled her close. “You’re no orphan, Niki. You’ve got a new family now. You belong to us, and I’ll never let you feel lost again. That I promise.”
Back at Blanding Court, Alair tried to pick up her life again as it had been before Luc. But it was impossible. Something profound and life changing had happened to her.
She could hardly remember what it had been like before Luc or imagine what it would be like without him. Gradually those four days at Larkspur Cottage began to seem like a dream.
Unknown to—or only suspected by—most people, the Allies were gearing up to attack the Germans at their weakest, most vulnerable point, the Italian peninsula, Sicily. Luc’s briefings changed drastically and his time off was shortened. For a month Luc and Alair shared only brief, abbreviated times together.
She threw herself into her work with the evacuee children again, many of whom had become special to her. She also now felt she had something more in common with their mothers. In spite of their different backgrounds, she felt the strong connection that her husband was united with theirs in an effort to defeat the enemy To know they shared the constant anxiety that their men were in daily danger made Alair conscious of what the other women were feeling.
Soon Alair became aware of an even deeper bond. When she witnessed the brief, emotional reunions of these mothers with their children and then saw the wrenching good-byes, she could more easily imagine what it might be like to have to send your child away from you. Although she wasn’t yet quite certain, Alair had the hope that she would soon be able to tell Luc they were going to have a child. She wanted to be quite sure before she told him.
Blanding Court had been in her father’s family for generations, and like many of these ancient, sixteenth-century mansions, it contained a private chapel. Largely unused, it was pointed out to visitors as a relic of an earlier time. Alair now found it a refuge. Day after day she was drawn there. Kneeling on the ornately carved wooden kneeler with its tapestried pillow, she stared at the stained-glass windows over the small altar. Unlike the windows in great cathedrals, which depicted the saints, these portrayed illustrious Blanding ancestors attired in suits of armor or court robes. Alair prayed wordlessly, thinking that other women of this family before her might also have knelt here and prayed for husbands at war. How tragic that this had to be, that it was repeated generation after generation.
Alair wondered how she could survive this and had to determinedly place her trust in God. Surely he would protect Luc, bring him safely home to her.
At the thought of the child she was now assured would be born sometime in December, Alair’s prayers became even more fervent. God, let the end of this war truly bring the peace we are all praying for. Whether this baby is a boy or a girl, let it be possible that he or she will grow up in a safe world, the kind of world Luc believes in, is willing to fight for….