1980
I stood at the back of the crowd of visitors and craned my head to hear Andrew the guide speaking. He was about fifty and wore a kilt in a brilliant turquoise, yellow and red. When he’d come towards me to shake my hand, the reek of Old Spice hung in the air. Having listened to him in the hall and the drawing room, I wasn’t convinced he was a particularly good guide as he never looked especially animated and he didn’t seem to be enjoying his job. It was as if he was churning out information he had simply learned by heart.
“This is the Charter Room,” he said, while grandly reaching out one arm at a time like a ballet dancer.
Everyone looked around at the dark wood panelling, the portraits hanging up high and the two small windows that gave out only the faintest of light. This room had poor lighting; it was so dingy, it was as if they didn’t want people to be able to see the paintings clearly.
“In this room, many important documents and deeds were signed. And on this chair” – he pointed to a large wooden seat beside the table – “it is even believed that Mary, Queen of Scots sat to write her letters during her visit to Fyvie.”
Before I could raise an objection, a stout man at the back-drawled, “But I thought she never visited Fyvie.”
The American was right. She never did.
“That’s because it was only on record that she visited Dunnotar Castle near Stonehaven, some forty miles to the south, for court purposes. She made official visits to that castle often, whereas she 77 would come here to relax, with just her ladies-in-waiting and a handful of courtiers.”
I opened my mouth but realised I could not embarrass Andrew in front of everyone. I would speak to him afterwards.
“And here,” he continued, unfazed by the American’s doubts, “is the way to the secret chamber.”
There was a rustle of coats and a shuffle of shoes as everyone strained to be nearest to the large wooden panel Andrew was pointing to.
“Down below, in this secret place, many of Alexander Seton’s special documents and valuables were kept, including, we believe, a set of jewellery that was given to him for his wives – he had three – by Mary, Queen of Scots herself.” He paused and we all stared at the wood, willing it to spring open. He smirked. “They say that down there are also the bones of one of his wives who displeased him.”
There was a wave of oohs and hands went up.
“What happened?”
“Can you open it?”
“Why are the bones here?”
“It can never be opened up. Legend says that if it is, the laird will die and his wife will become blind. Two lairds have tried it; both died soon after and both wives contracted eye infections, one in fact becoming blind.”
There was an intake of breath as everyone got closer to the panel.
“But now we must move along.” He shuffled everyone out of the door and pointed outside. “Go past the Meldrum Stairs and through the rooms we have just seen, then wait for me midway up the Great Stairs. We shall then climb up together to the top step and look at the portrait there.”
They all trudged towards the stairs and I noticed a woman 78 peering perilously close to one of the Raeburns. I tapped Andrew on the shoulder. He was glowering at the visitor, presumably to ensure the Raeburn was not touched, but eventually he turned around.
“I was just wondering about the Mary, Queen of Scots part of what you just said. I had no idea she visited here.”
“Oh, nor do I, Maggie,” he whispered. “But they all love that, especially the Americans. You must have seen their faces.” He grinned and I noticed how black his teeth were.
“But the bit about the secret chamber is true, I presume?”
“Very much so. No one’s opened it up fully since the seventeenth century. The curse is still with the family.” He turned and bounded up the stairs, where I joined him.
“This stunning portrait,” he said, pointing his finger to a tall painting of a young lady wearing a green dress, “is of Lilias Seton, née Drummond. She was the first wife of Alexander Seton who was Mary, Queen of Scots’ much favoured godson.”
Well, that part was true.
“The portrait is hung here, just along from the Seton Bedroom, which we shall visit next. It’s not been moved for decades, centuries even, because,” he bent his head down towards the eager crowd and pronounced in a loud stage whisper, “she is said to haunt the castle. So we wish to ensure she is happy and to placate her by keeping the painting here.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Does the ghost only appear at night?”
“Is she an evil ghost?”
Andrew held up a palm and paused until every hand was down then said, conspiratorially, “Lilias Seton, according to some reports, displeased her husband, who some say mistreated her and eventually sent her away. I have never seen the ghost myself, but it seems to appear only at night and then all you can see is a 79 flicker and shimmer of green.”
“Ooh, so she’s wearing that dress we see in the portrait?”
“Indeed she is. It was painted by an artist brought over from Paris by Alexander Seton in 1585, and as you can see, her hair is coiffed beautifully and entwined with pearls in the French manner of the time. It is said Mary Seton, Alexander’s aunt, who was also lady-in-waiting to Mary, Queen of Scots, did her hair in the same way she styled the Queen’s hair.” He turned behind him and pointed to a stone statuette on the floor behind him. It was a beautifully carved miniature of a sixteenth century noblewoman playing a lute. She had a high collar and hair piled high on her head with strings of pearls woven through it. “This is Mary Seton, a regular visitor to Fyvie Castle. Please note the similar hairstyle.”
I frowned. Was that a coincidence, or did Mary Seton in fact style Lilias Drummond’s hair? How much of his tales were true? I was a history student, I wanted to establish the truth so I could give my own guided tours based on fact. I turned back to stare at the young woman in the painting, fair skinned and with a shy, innocent air about her, which was hardly surprising: she was only a teenager and about to marry a man some fifteen years older. But as I continued to stare at her, that feeling of sadness came upon me once more. What was wrong with me? I had become a more positive person recently, but there was something about her face, full of youth and naivety, that made me want to cry. And I haven’t done that for ages, well, at least since last summer. I shook myself and followed the jostling crowd into the room.