The lowering black clouds seemed oblivious to the fact that it was the first day of spring. Allison sent one final glance toward the sunless sky, then yanked her drapes shut. Well, it wasn’t her celebration the weather was threatening. At least she could be glad for that. Still, several of her friends would be attending, and it would have been so much nicer if the sun had shone.
The family had decided that Port Strathy was due for a holiday. Since Dorey’s birthday came so near the outbreak of spring, it provided the perfect opportunity to commemorate not only his eighty-ninth birthday and the coming of spring but also the apparent easing of the hardships that had held everyone in its grip for the last two years. The winter had been a relatively mild one and everyone was optimistic, both with regard to the fishing and the crops of the Strathy valley, that the coming spring and summer seasons would be the most productive in years.
All Allison had to say about the plans was that it was about time everyone stopped acting as if life had ended because of some depression going on in London and New York. She was glad to see that her mother was dressing up the family home in a manner that showed off their position in the best possible light. They were, after all, the Duncan clan of the celebrated Ramsey stock—the closest thing to royalty, if not in the whole of northeast Scotland, then certainly for miles around. Her mother always seemed to downplay that important fact; Allison for one was delighted that on this occasion, at least, they would put on their true colors.
The whole town had been invited, as well as three prominent families from out of the area: the Arylin-Michaels from Aberdeen, the Fairgates of Dundee, and of course the Bramfords from nearby Culden. Alec had originally proposed the event strictly for local folk, but Allison had ardently argued that if they were going to have a party, she ought to be able to invite some of her friends, and in the end her parents consented. Thus the three families, all of whom had daughters at Allison’s boarding school, were included. The fact that each of these particular friends also had dashing older brothers only slightly colored her choice. Or so she told herself, though she said nothing about this reason for her insistence to anyone.
Allison turned from the window and walked toward the mirror. She paused, smoothed out her lace dress as she took one last look, and smirked with disdain—but not without a sigh of satisfaction—that she had been able to make it turn out as well as she had. Her mother made her dress like such an absolute infant. At least she had extracted what was nearly an ironclad promise that she could wear the dress of her choice to the Bramfords’ ball next month.
She left her room and made her way down the hall. Many of the guests had already arrived and were milling about below, for, in deference to the threatening storm, the inside of the house had also been opened to the festivities. Outside, large tables had been set up where the factor, nervously glancing toward the sky every few minutes, could not seem to make up his mind whether to continue preparations for the food and drinks that would be served, or to repair inside and there make the best of it he could, despite limitations of space.
As she approached the top of the main stairway, Allison stopped at the railing and looked down. Just then she saw Olivia Fairgate’s brother entering. There couldn’t be a better moment to make my grand entrance, she thought to herself, smiling. She glided down the stairs with all the grace that could be taught in Scotland’s finest boarding schools, a noble smile on her face as if to imply, I am the queen, come to greet my subjects. And as intended, at least one set of eyes looked up admiringly.
“Why, Lord Dalmount, how good of you to come,” she said demurely, holding out her hand with feigned timidity. And true to his breeding, the young man took the soft, dainty hand and kissed it lightly.
“The estate is hardly mine—yet,” he replied in a soft voice and a chuckle, with a tinge of anxiety lest anyone should have heard Allison’s flippant remark. “You must have been talking to my sister, and she sometimes says more than is good for her.” Then, resuming a more relaxed countenance, he added, “But in the meantime, please just call me Charles.”
“Why of course, Charles. As I said, it is nice to see you.”
“I couldn’t possibly resist an invitation from Stonewycke—notwithstanding the distance. They come so seldom.”
“Yes, we are socially buried up here,” she replied. “It has always been so. And I’m afraid large estates with old-fashioned castles on them are hardly in vogue these days.”
“Going the way of the dinosaur, I suppose.”
“I can’t help but think it might be good to kill the old place off, and get on with the times. It is the thirties, you know.”
“It has a certain provincial quaintness about it, though,” he replied glancing about. And though his tone could not have been more polite, there was a certain undetectable upward tilt of his nose that indicated he shared her disdain for the ancient relics of the past. “However,” he added, “I do see what you mean. Just think what could be done if the whole thing was modernized.”
As they talked they had slowly made their way toward the large open parlor, where several tables of light refreshments had been laid.
“Will there be dancing later?” asked Dalmount as he lifted two glasses of punch from the tray of a passing servant.
“I think there is some kind of entertainment planned.”
“Real dancing?” he queried, “or will we have to don our kilts and pick up our knees to the screeching sounds of the pipes?”
Allison laughed—a very musical, grown-up, and bewitching laugh. “I’m afraid you are right there! Just as with everything else about this place, my father is a traditionalist when it comes to dancing too.”
“No Jan Garber or Fred Waring?”
She laughed again. “Don’t I wish! But I’m afraid we will be lucky to kick up our heels to a Gay Gordon.”
“No ballroom dancing where I might be favored with a spin around the floor with you?”
“Surely you jest. This little fete is for the fishermen and crofters. You don’t think any of them know how to jitterbug or waltz, do you? My father and mother are going to lead a round of The Rakes of Glasgow and De’il Amang the Tailors and maybe even The Dashing White Sergeant if they can get together enough sets of people who know it. But that’s all. Do you know any of the folk dances?”
“Never bothered to learn. You?”
“Some of them. I always liked Dee’s Dandy Dance when I was a girl, but at school we’ve been—oh, look!” exclaimed Allison in mid-sentence, getting more caught up in the festive mood of the day now that she saw some acquaintances from her own crowd in the midst of the local peasants, “there’s Eddie Bramford outside! We must say hello.” It might not exactly be the kind of party Allison would have chosen, but with Olivia’s handsome, eligible brother by her side, she could overlook that fact. She linked her arm through his, and led him out through the French doors.
The garden, protected on three sides by the walls of the house and a low hedge, was rather pleasant considering the cold borne in on the winds of the gathering storm. With old-fashioned lanterns strung overhead and garlands of flowers and draped tartans of the various clans represented all about, it could almost have been a summer afternoon. But the precariously swinging lanterns and the flapping edges of the blankets served as a constant reminder that the weather would soon have its way even in this secluded spot. The children playing tag, most dressed in what seemed to Allison mere rags, had long since donned their coats.
Edward Bramford, a florid, fleshy twenty-year-old, possessed an athletic kind of attractiveness, unlike the lean, debonaire appearance of Allison’s temporary companion. He lumbered up to the approaching pair and held out a thick hand to Charles.
“Grand party, Allison,” he said with a good-natured grin of ridicule on his heavy face, glancing around knowingly at the other guests whom he considered beneath the dignity of his position.
“It is now that the gang’s all here,” Allison replied.
“I didn’t realize the local gentry was going to be so well represented,” he said with another sarcastic laugh. “Eh, Charles?”
“Well, Bramford,” said Charles, not willing to take the bait of the joke and risk losing Allison’s favor over a remark in poor taste, “will Oxford make the finals this year?”
“As long as they’ve got me on the offense.”
“Rugby, rugby, rugby!” said Allison in mock frustration. “Is that all you men can talk about?”
“I imagine you would be more at home if we took up the subject of the lastest fashions?” rejoined Charles.
“Of course. But I hardly know when something new’s out before it’s two years behind the times. It is just too frustrating being stuck in such an out-of-the-way place!”
“Now really, Miss MacNeil,” said Bramford, not to be diverted from a discussion of his true love, “what’s wrong with rugby?”
“Nothing, I suppose . . .” replied Allison, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “That is, if I understood a whit about the game.”
Thereupon Eddie Bramford launched into a description of the game detailed enough to put even an enthusiast of the game like Charles to sleep. Fortunately they were soon joined by Clifford Arylin-Michaels, the third bachelor of the little group whose presence had been secured by Allison’s contrivances with Joanna and Alec. Allison was clearly the chief attraction for each of the three, and no doubt the only reason they consented to accompany their parents to an event that would otherwise bore them past endurance with all its local, boorish color.
The appearance of Arylin-Michaels fell somewhere between those of the other two men. His face was rather plain and nondescript, as was his soft-spoken voice. He also knew little about rugby, but the moment the conversation lagged, he was ready with a political expostulation about the situation on the Continent, for his father was a Conservative M.P. in the House of Commons.
Allison cared little that the conversation was dull. It was enough for the moment to be surrounded by these three young men. When her three school friends migrated toward the circle and aroused virtually no interest on the part of any of the young men, she could hardly keep her inward exhilaration from spilling onto her face. She purposefully took no notice of their hostile glances throughout the remainder of the evening.
It was difficult to tell exactly when the sun had set, for the dark afternoon had passed gradually into evening. Still the rain had not come. Though a number of guests had to leave to attend to their livestock, and a few to their fishing boats, those who remained were at last led into the ballroom, where Alec, true to Allison’s prediction, marched into the center of the crowd in full Highland regalia, extemporizing an ear-deafening rendition of Scotland the Brave on his bagpipes, much to the delight of all present. Only Allison’s small group of friends standing toward one corner was indifferent to the proceedings. The rest of Port Strathy’s inhabitants whooped and clapped and sang along to the most familiar of all Scotland’s tunes.
“An’ noo, my friends,” Alec called out when the drone from his pipes had died away, “I wad like t’ invite any o’ ye adventurous enough fer it, ont’ the floor. Ye are the evenin’s entertainment yersel’s!”
Suddenly a rousing Reel began from the small local contingency of fiddlers and accordionists. In an instant all hands were clapping and feet stomping to the beat, and soon Alec had again filled his bag with air and was searching in wailful tones for the melody.
The Reel lasted about five minutes, after which Alec announced, “Let’s start with The Gay Gordons! Men, bring your ladies onto the floor and take your positions in the center of the circle!”
But his last words could hardly be heard. No sooner had the words Gay Gordons left his lips than the small band had again struck up the music with their instruments and the shuffling of many feet on the hardwood floor made momentary chaos of the room. Nor did anyone present require Alec’s instructions, for every native Scot—fisher, crofter, or laird—had known the favorite dance from childhood.
Soon the couples, led by Joanna and Alec, were circling the room rhythmically to the lively music. With every new stanza the men advanced to a new partner, and thus progressed around the room. Alec’s laugh seemed loudest of all, and with each of the fisher or farmer wives he came to, he appeared to enjoy himself still further. The men, on their part, when they took Joanna in their arms, did so with a timid grace that was wonderful to behold. The humble pride on the faces of the hard-working men of Port Strathy told the story—for them, this was like dancing with royalty itself!
The mood was infectious. Even Allison’s so-called sophisticated friends could not resist the invitation to share in the gaiety, even when it came at the hand of a crusty and red-faced old fisherman. No amount of expostulation, however, on the part of the future laird of Dalmount, could get Allison onto the floor. She stood watching the festivities in moody silence, trying occasionally to cover the mortification she felt at having her family seen mingling with such people, with snide and haughty comments intended to be witty. How could her father, the laird, degrade himself so!
Out-of-breath, laughing, and perspiring freely, the thirty or forty persons left on the floor burst into spontaneous applause as the music came to a loud and triumphant conclusion. No one could remember when they’d had so much fun!
“An’ noo, what would ye all say t’ seein’ Lady Margaret an’ Lord Duncan favor us wi’ a sight o’ their nimble feet?” said Alec above the noise, at which the clapping and shouts of encouragement grew louder still.
Knowing the futility of trying to argue, Maggie and Ian came slowly forward from where they had been standing clapping their hands and tapping their toes. Ian beamed with pleasure as his wife gently took his arm and allowed him to lead her into the center of the room. Then, as the small band softly took up the melancholy strains of Lochnagar, Ian tenderly slipped his hand around Maggie’s waist and their aging feet began an improvisation about the floor, now a waltz, now a quick shuffle-stepping reel. Suddenly they were young again! All thought of the watching eyes were gone. The wind was on their faces, blowing down upon them from across the heather hills over which they had ridden together. Raven and Maukin stood close by, their sides heaving from the strenuous ride. For music, the birds and the breeze and the nearby rushing burn in the trees supplied more than enough. Maggie gave herself up to Ian’s strong and loving arms. He swung her around, lifting her feet from the ground as she laughed as only young Maggie Duncan could laugh. Oh, Ian, I love you! she thought, and with the words the dying melody once again penetrated her consciousness. As her mind came back to the present, Maggie was gazing deeply into Ian’s chestnut brown eyes, still thinking the same words. As if he knew her thoughts, he returned her gaze with the deep love which only two who had been through such trials as they could share. Oblivious to the music, which had by now stopped, the aging couple continued to dance a few moments longer, content in each other’s arms, until the broken sounds of applause, growing steadily louder, at last awakened them. They looked around at their friends, laughed, and then Ian said, “Weel, I guess we’re jist a couple o’ auld lovesick fools!” That brought laughs all around, for everyone in the village knew he spoke the most perfect London-English in the entire valley.
Joanna’s laugh, however, could hardly hide the tears streaming down her face at the sight of her grandmother and grandfather so happy and content together. Thank you, Lord, she sighed, for bringing them together! And indeed, as the women of Port Strathy looked on, especially those old enough to remember, Joanna was not the only one in whose eyes stood tears of joy for the lady they loved.
“An’ noo, let’s see if we canna get the white sergeant t’ dash aboot a bit!” said Alec. “We need a set o’ six—as many as we can weel fill up the floor wi’.”
As the band plunged vigorously into a lively introduction to The Dashing White Sergeant, once again there was a great scurrying about as four or five sets of six tried to arrange themselves in lines of three, forming a great wheel about the room, with its spokes pointing toward the center. But no sooner had the dance gotten underway when suddenly Evan Hughes burst into the room, out of breath, with his hat crumpled in his hand. Mrs. Bonner, the housekeeper, trailed Hughes through the door of the ballroom.
He ran straight to Alec, who was jovially winding his way through the dance’s first figure-eight, and stopped him with an urgent hand on his arm.
“There’s been an accident,” he began. “The schooner’s run aground!”
Immediately the dancing in Alec’s group came to a halt as he turned to Evan for details. One by one the other groups wound down also, and at last the music ceased, as gasps and exclamations around the room gave evidence to the severity of the news, especially for those with relatives or friends aboard.
“We’ll need all the help we can git fer the rescue!” shouted Alec, and no sooner had the words fallen upon the ears of his fellow townsmen than once again the room became alive, now with no preparation for a dance but rather in preparation to battle the wind and a surly sea to save their kinsmen. The local folk never had to be told twice. Before Hughes was through with his news, a full half of them were already out of the ballroom and on their way down to the harbor.
Those remaining, however, heard as Evan continued: “Tim Peters were mindin’ the helm” he said, “an’ when his wife heard . . .”
He hesitated, then went on, turning toward Joanna who had joined Alec, “ . . . weel, ye know her condition, my leddy.”
“Yes,” Joanna replied with concern in her voice, “she’s had an unpleasant pregnancy—”
“Aye, she has!” broke in Hughes, “an’ Doc Connally’s over t’ Culden.”
“You don’t mean . . . ?”
“Aye, my leddy!”
“She’s gone into labor?”
“’Tis what I come here t’ tell ye. I figured Alec here, ye know, might be a mite sight better’n nae doctor at all—that is t’ say—weel . . .” And, flustered, he broke off his speech.
“I know yer meanin’,” replied Alec with a smile. “But nae doobt I’ll be needed at the wreck too. Hoo bad is’t, Evan?”
“Can’t alt’gither tell. ’Tis fearsome dark oot there! But it could be bad, my laird.”
“Please, Evan, ’tis no time fer formalities! Joanna,” he said, turning to his wife, “can ye see t’ Mrs. Peters? Ye’ve had mair experience wi’ human births than I.”
Joanna nodded, adding, “She may not be in any real danger. Sometimes these things come and go.”
“Thank ye, lass!” replied Alec with a grin. “I’ll organize the men at the harbor. We’ll hae t’ send a fleet o’ boats oot t’ pick up the men, I’m thinkin’. Meantime, Evan, jist in case it is her time, are ye up fer a hasty ride t’ Culden?”
Hughes nodded his assent and hurried away with Alec close behind him.
Now it was Joanna’s turn to spring into action. She walked quickly toward Maggie where she stood anxiously watching the developments. After a few moments of hurried conversation, Lady Margaret nodded. She would take charge of the house and what guests remained. Most, however, even of the out-of-town guests, had joined the throng on its way down the road to the town, if not to help, then at least as spectators. In the meantime, Joanna turned and her eyes, flashing now in anticipation of what lay ahead, sought her daughter.
Allison felt dizzy. This was not at all how she had envisioned the conclusion of the evening. Two of her three young men had trooped off to watch the rescue efforts, while the third was even now plying his skills in an attempt to persuade her to accompany him along with the others. Her three school friends, in a group by themselves a little way away, were observing Allison’s every move with jealous eyes while pretending to be completely unaware of her presence. Allison at length resigned herself to following along, that prospect being more desirable than the boredom of remaining behind listening to Clifford expound on the dangers of German rearmament, when from behind her she heard her mother’s voice.
“Allison, would you come with me?”
She turned to see Joanna approaching with a determined stride.
“Uh . . . where?” she asked nervously. Now this really was too much, to have her mother speak to her like a child—and in front of her friends!
“Mrs. Peters—she may be about to have a baby.”
“But—but . . .” Allison faltered, shrinking back from Joanna’s penetrating eyes and the urgency in her voice.
“Allison, I may need you.”
“Oh, Mother! My good dress . . . I’ll spoil it!”
“Allison!” returned Joanna imperatively. “I need your help! Now, please—come with me!”
“But the guests—” attempted Allison lamely.
Lady Margaret, who had slowly come up to the two, now laid a hand gently on her great-granddaughter’s shoulder. “I will see to everything here,” she said. “You may go with your mother.” Her words were gently spoken, but there was an immovable firmness to them at the same time which Allison could not refuse. Further resistance would be pointless. She only hoped her friends weren’t watching, even though Clifford would probably recount every word to all of them!
With a sigh of martyred resignation, Allison took the coat that Mrs. Bonner held out to her and wrapped it around her shoulders. If her great-grandmother had only stayed out of it! She might be able to argue with her mother. But Lady Margaret was like a rock. No matter how kind and gentle she appeared on the outside, down inside she could be so determined. Whenever Allison tried to withstand the old lady, somehow her voice always caught in her throat. Was she afraid of her great-grandmother? She doubted it. How could anyone be afraid of one like Lady Margaret? What was it, then? Was she intimidated by the sheer age and eminent standing of her great-grandmother, both in the family and in the community? Or was it simply an awe, a deep respect? But if that was its proper name, it was never a direction in which she allowed her thoughts to travel for long. And on this occasion she hardly had time to reflect on these things at all, for events began to sweep her along in their train.
Joanna brought the Austin around front from the garage, sounded an authoritative blast on the shrill horn, and Allison ran out into the night and climbed in beside her without a word.
As the automobile flew rattling down the hill, Allison glanced back. The last thing she saw before a bend in the road obscured her vision were several of the lanterns swinging above the courtyard garden, more agitated now in the rapidly brewing storm, a fine mist giving the lights an ethereal appearance, as if to punctuate the disastrous climax to the evening’s events.