These spritely creatures often inhabit the lush wooded groves of Scotland, particularly in the Highlands, found in caves and hillsides…fairies prefer to reside in hills, mountains, caves, and near natural wells and springs...
What a load of pretty nonsense, James thought. He dipped his pen in fresh ink to make a note on the creamy paper. Find local sites, he wrote.
As a knock sounded at the study door, he looked up, grateful for the interruption, for he had worked all afternoon. Mrs. MacKimmie peered in the door and then entered. “My lord, I beg your pardon, but Mary the downstairs maid has just quit your service.”
“Another one?” He set down the pen. “Was it the banshee again? That sent the other girl screaming from here three days ago.” The creature, or the door hinge, had shrieked through the whole of the first two nights after he had arrived.
“That, and the haunts and fairies. Mary says she canna stay in a household plagued by strange things. She wants to return to Edinburgh today.”
He frowned. “That’s all the housemaids gone in less than a week.”
“Aye, sir.” She stood with hands folded. James noticed then that she wore a long pelisse and a bonnet.
“Are you ready to leave my service as well?”
“Of course not, sir.” She smiled faintly.
“So we are infested with fairies as well as banshees, ghosts, boggles, brownies, some nesting doves, and a few mice,” he said, pen still poised in his hand.
“The fairy ilk, aye, they’re about, and soon will ride, as I told you.”
“Surely you don’t believe that, Mrs. MacKimmie. But it is a charming local tradition. What did the maid see today? A moth flitting from lamp to lamp?”
“She said there was a fairy in the garden today, a beautiful creature that turned and saw her, then vanished among the bushes. Poor girl was so upset she could not stay another day. Those Southron lasses Lady Rankin sent have no head for a good fright. Begging your pardon, sir. Being Southron yourself.”
“I’m surprised the girl could see anything in the garden with all this rain,” James remarked. “Not even the bravest duck would be out in such a downpour as this. Not that I believe in such phenomena as phantasms, fairies, and whatnot.” He dipped his pen in the ink again to resume writing about just such whatnot.
“Struan House is a favorite place for the fairies, sir. Used to belong to them, so they say. There is more of the Otherworld in our own world than we know.”
“If there is a fairy in the garden, we should invite her inside to dry off and have some tea.” As he spoke, he turned a page in the manuscript and took a few notes, inked nib whispering over paper. Fairy riding, he wrote. Local custom in autumn.
“I came to tell you, sir, that I must leave, but only for a day or two.”
He looked up. “I hope the fairies have not frightened you away as well.”
“Oh, no! I always leave the house for a few days to allow for the fairy riding. We all do. But my daughter just had another child, and so I’d like to visit her, and must leave earlier than planned. Mr. MacKimmie as well, of course.”
“Certainly. As I told you, I am happy to have a few days to myself here.”
“If you feel comfortable, sir. Thank you. One of the grooms will drive me and then return with the gig. Mr. MacKimmie will take the landau to drive the housemaids to catch the post-chaise in Callander to go back to Edinburgh. He will meet me at our daughter’s house. We will be gone no more than a few days. Beg your pardon for leaving you thus.”
“Not at all.” Locals avoid the Fairy Riding at all costs, he wrote.
“There’s food in the larder, sir, and soup in the kettle today. The groom will be back to see to the milk-cow in the byre, the horses, and the chickens. And I’ve sent word to a local family to ask if their daughter could come round to see to the housekeeping for you until I return.”
“That’s very efficient, Mrs. MacKimmie. Thank you.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” she said. “The post arrived just now, very late. The post driver said the roads are that muddy, and he does not expect to be back for a week or more.” She set three letters on the corner of the desk. “I’ll just leave, shall I?”
He took the letters and smiled. “Good day, and safe journey.”
“Thank you, sir.” She shut the door.
James sat back to open the letters. One was from the lawyer, Mr. Browne, another from Lady Rankin, the last from his brother, Patrick. He scanned each one. His great-aunt wrote to inform him—again—of her travel plans, fretting about whether Struan House was acceptable for sophisticated city guests. James snorted a little at that. Patrick reported that he would travel to the area with Sir John Graham, who was interested in a business venture in the north. They had declined Lady Rankin’s invitation to join her party. James laughed softly at that, too. The lawyer’s terse note made him frown. He set it aside; it required no immediate response.
Reaching for one of the books stacked haphazardly on the desk, a volume of Scott’s work on ballads and legends, James flipped until he found a section on fairy lore, then picked up his pen to jot more notes.
“‘Fairies and elves,’” James read aloud, “‘are interchangeable terms in the Highlands.’ Ah. So the elven sort are the fey sort. Right, then.” He scribbled that down.
The most formidable attribute of the elves, Sir Walter Scott had written, was their practice of carrying away, and exchanging, children; and that of stealing human souls from their bodies...the power of the fairies extended to full-grown persons, especially those found asleep under a rock or on a green hill belonging to the fairies...
“Good God, Sir Walter has succumbed to this nonsense too,” James muttered, shaking his head. He flipped pages, skimming the essay. A farmer, he next read, had gone out to wait for a procession of fairies, and then heard “the ringing of the fairy bridles, and the wild unearthly sound that accompanied the cavalcade.”
James sat up, finding that of interest, considering the fairy riding that Mrs. MacKimmie kept mentioning. He wanted to be sure to include these details in his grandmother’s book. Flipping pages, he came to the old Scottish ballad of Tam Lin. Tam had been lured by the irresistible charms of the queen of fairies; appearing to his true love, Janet, he asked her to meet him when the fairies rode in procession. Janet must grab him and hold fast no matter what so that he could be free.
Betwixt the hours of twelve and one
A north wind tore the bent
And straight she heard strange eldritch sounds
Upon that wind which went.
Outside, the wind and rain picked up fiercely, rattling the windows. He glanced up, hoping that Mrs. MacKimmie and the others traveled in safety, for they would be on their way by now. He took up a stack of handwritten pages from Lady Struan’s thick manuscript. More pages piled beside his right hand. To his left, stacks of books teetered on the desk, with some on the floor as well. He placed his own notes in with the manuscript pages.
Standing to fetch another book from a high shelf, stepping on an iron stool to reach it, he limped back to the desk. He moved around as much as possible without his cane. The thing was more useful for distances and handy on cold and rainy days, when the leg ached, as it had done for days now in this dreary weather. He settled in his chair to read again.
“Fairy rings...fairy phosphorous...now that might prove interesting,” he said.
The study walls were lined with books behind mesh-fronted shelves, and the small, cozy library beyond, with its horsehair sofa, wing chairs, and fireplace, was filled with even more books, most of them collected by his grandparents, though some had belonged to previous generations of the lairds of Struan. His great-grandfather had purchased the property in his middle years, having been elevated to a peerage for brave service in the military, so that James had become the third Viscount Struan. A shiny new title, as most went.
He picked up a sheaf of his grandmother’s book, the topmost of the handwritten pages with their curling edges and the smell of ink, years dry, lingering still. Her handwriting was small and certain, and every page was densely covered, some crisscrossed with sentences. There were at least six hundred pages, he had estimated. He had spent nearly a fortnight just reading Grandmother’s close, fine handwriting, or various books on fairy lore and social customs in Scotland. All the while, he had taken new notes of his own, so that the piled papers grew daily.
The scope of the thing was more than he had expected. Lady Struan’s writing was a scholarly study of Highland fairy lore. Some of it fascinated him, he had to admit. He had applied himself diligently to the work, taking little leisure time, though he had gone on a few walks to stretch his muscles and search for rocks to support his geological studies.
Now he rose and went to the window at the back of the house. Gazing at the vast, upward-sloping garden—expanded last year, he understood from MacKimmie, to include a grotto cut from a hill behind the house—he watched the rain.
Then he saw something moving high up on the slope.
For a moment, he thought of the fairy the maid had claimed to see. No doubt that had been just an illusion created by greenery, flowers, rocks, and mist. In rain and twilight, a shadow moved on the hill—
A girl? Wraith, ghost, human, or mist, someone was there.
He narrowed his eyes as he saw her again—definitely a girl. Dark hair, pale face. She looked toward the house, then disappeared behind wet shrubbery.
He frowned. Rain trickled in rivulets down the hillside. If someone was there, they might slip on the unstable hill, running with rivulets of rain and mud.
A flash of lightning showed the girl again. The grotto, completed a while before Lady Struan’s death, was supposedly a fairy portal, or so his grandmother had said in her manuscript notes. Whatever it was, just now it was a precipitous slope.
If someone was mucking about in the grotto in this torrent, he intended to stop them before disaster occurred. Turning, snatching up his cane, he marched out into the corridor. Osgar the wolfhound, who had been sleeping in the hallway outside the door, rose and loped after him.
Best hurry, Elspeth thought. Two carriages had left the house since she had entered the garden, but someone might still remain in the house. She had hoped the place would be empty, had thought the storm might hold off. She had been wrong on both counts. Now she could only hope Lord Struan himself was not at home.
The staff would be leaving to avoid the fairy riding, and she had thought she would be safe to explore the garden later. But with the poor weather, today had seemed a better time to look for her grandfather’s stone. In good weather, someone might come outside to the grotto.
She had told Mrs. Graham that she would stay with Margaret Lamont if the weather turned poorly. Elspeth was always happy to visit her friend Margaret and her husband and children, and often lent a hand in the process of combing, dyeing, spinning, and twisting the new wools. But she had impulsively decided to stop at Struan House first to look for Grandda’s stone. Now, in this rain, she regretted it.
Well, she thought, since she was here she may as well search. According to legend—and to Donal too—a fairy entrance, a portal into another realm, was hidden somewhere on this hill. Curious to know if Donal’s tales were true, she was wary of the rain and mud, not to mention the risk of lightning; she ought to leave.
For a moment, she wondered if the Daoine Síth had something to do with this weather. Tradition said the Fey had such power, and they would want to prevent anyone from finding the entrance to their land. Uneasy now, caught between belief and logic, Elspeth stood by the rock wall high on the hill and glanced around.
Originally, a cluster of rock had crested the slope, but the work of creating the grotto had changed the hill’s profile. Elspeth tried to remember where Donal had stood when he had visited this place years ago, disappearing into the fairy world, or so he later said. Where had she seen him set the stone as if it were a key?
Pulling up her plaid shawl against the slanting rain gave her a little protection, but she could do little about her gown, Spencer jacket, and leather boots, all soaked by now. She had to hurry, for she could not risk being discovered by someone in the great house. How could she explain that she had trespassed to search for a stone that she intended to steal away? Even though it belonged to her family and might be a key to the fairy world—it sounded pure madness. The late Lady Struan had been keenly interested in local lore and would have eagerly supported the search. But that kind lady was gone now. Others would not be so accepting.
More than once, Lady Struan had invited Donal and Elspeth to Struan House to talk about fairy legends. Donal had told her many of his stories, warning Lady Struan that certain tales could not be written down for fear of angering the fairies. The lady had been fascinated, promising to protect Donal’s stories if she could use some of what he said in her book.
Even the fairies had enough sense to stay out of such rain, Elspeth told herself, wiping a muddy hand across her brow. Shivering, she gathered her shawl closer, the long arisaid favored by Highland women, which covered her head to knee and protected her from the elements. But even that good wool was becoming soggy.
She made her way along carefully, the ground mucky under her feet. Thunder boomed, and she jumped a little. Hurry, she told herself, for it would be dark soon.
A dog barked, and a man called out. Startled, Elspeth whirled to peer through sheeting rain, stepping forward. Her heel hit a sluice of muddy water, her feet went out from under her, and then she was sliding downward, unable to stop herself on a cascade of muck. Bumping along, she landed with a lurch at the bottom of the slope, skirts tangled and muddied, legs sprawled. Sitting up, she pushed the plaid off of her face and shoved her hair back.
Black boots stood an inch deep in mud just in front of her. Looking up, she saw brown trousers, a walking stick, gray gloves, a brown jacket, a damp neckcloth—
Lord Struan stared down at her.
No fairy, nor eldritch hag sprawling at his feet, James saw—just a wet, bedraggled girl in a filthy dress and plaid shawl. Her face was obscured by dripping hair, but he immediately noted that she was slim and well-shaped, from her neat ankles and calves in muddy stockings and shoes, to her slender frame, small waist, and full breasts encased in sopping fabric. She looked young, pretty—and miserable.
“Miss.” He leaned down to extend a hand. “Let me help you.”
With a gasp, the girl shoved her skirts down over her legs and pushed back the plaid. James saw a heart-shaped face haloed by curling tendrils of black hair, and eyes looking up at him, gray-green, silver as rain.
“Why, Miss MacArthur,” he said nonchalantly. “How pleasant to see you again. What the devil are you doing in my garden?”
“Lord Struan,” she said. “You need not swear.”
“Apologies. I plead the shock of the moment.” He offered his hand again. She refused it and managed to stand, wincing.
“I’m fine, sir,” she said, waving away his extended hand.
He doubted that, seeing how she favored one foot and hopped about. “Are you sure? Well then, what can I do for you?” Water ran from the brim of his hat. He was drenched and so was she, with the rain continuing to pound. He waited politely.
“Welcome to Struan, my lord,” she said. Thunder rumbled. “Are you just arrived? I hope you are enjoying the Highlands.” She wiped the back of her hand across her muddy face and sniffed.
James inclined his head. “I’m quite enjoying them now.”
“How nice. I must go. Please excuse my intrusion.” Turning, she stepped to the side, gasped, and flailed her arms as her footing faltered. James took her elbow.
“Come along,” he said firmly. “I am not about to let you walk out in a thunderstorm. Into the house we go.” He turned with her.
He led her down another incline and along the stone pathway through the wet, raggedy garden, and quickly realized that the girl was having difficulty walking. The rain lashed nearly sideways now, and he set an arm about her shoulders to protect her as she hunched forward, drawing up the soggy plaid against the downpour.
Lightning cracked brightly overhead, and the wind whirled about them. James felt an eerie sense, as if there were real danger in the air even beyond the storm.
“Hurry,” he said, and snatched her up in his arms, taking the garden path in quick strides. He had dropped his cane, but his leg did not seem to hinder him for some reason. Rushing along a garden pathway lined with leggy marigolds and late pansies, he headed for the kitchen door, Elspeth MacArthur clinging to his neck.
Thunder pounded again, and for a moment James felt caught up in the nightmare of Quatre Bras, where he and his Highland Watch regiment had defended ground against an onrush of French cuirassiers—the booming thunder reminded him of that day. He hurried, breathing hard as he reached the door, managed the handle with the girl in his arms, and nearly hurtled inside.
In the dim corridor, the wolfhound and two terriers waited, shuffling out of the way as James carried the girl inside. He kicked the door shut and set off with her down the hall, past the kitchen and up a short flight of steps to the main hallway, then along that to the parlor. The dogs trotted close and curious on his heels.
The MacArthur girl was a sopping wet bundle, but still no burden. She fit in his arms like sin itself. Her curves eased against him, warming them both. Her face was close to his, breath soft upon his cheek, one arm resting around his shoulders, a hand on his chest.
His breath came back quickly, thanks to his fit nature, but his heart slammed nonetheless as he tried not to focus on the girl fitted so warm and wet against him. And no doubt ruining his shirt, he tried to tell himself. He must think of the need to get the girl dried off. Think of the ache in his left leg from a wound incurred seven years ago. Think of the cane he had dropped in the garden when he had lifted her up. Blast it all, he had lost his hat, too, and likely ruined a good coat in the rain.
Mundane but helpful thoughts kept his mind off the delicious creature leaning against him, gazing up at him as if he was some sort of hero. He almost laughed. Dull was what he wanted to be, what he went out of his way to establish these days. This mad rain-soaked adventure was out of character.
But before he bid her farewell, once she was dry and warm, he meant to find out why the lovely Miss MacArthur had been in his garden in the first place. Surely she was the so-called fairy that had scared off the housemaid.