The Skylark's Secret(22)
Flora whispered a thank you and then Lady Helen quietly ushered them back into the kitchen, softly closing the door behind them. They heard her making her way upstairs and then the low rumble of Sir Charles’s voice, questioning, followed by the soft, placatory tones of her reply.
Alec cut a generous slice of fruit cake and put it in a wicker basket, then added a lump of coal from the scuttle next to the range, wrapping it in a piece of newspaper. Flora nestled the bottle of whisky in alongside the cake and nodded as Alec gestured silently towards the door.
Stepping outside, their breath hung in white clouds on the cold night air. They got into the car and Alec let off the handbrake, freewheeling down the drive beneath the canopy of dark pine branches, only starting the engine once they were almost at the road.
As they emerged from beneath the trees, turning northwards, both of them gasped in astonishment. For while their backs had been turned, the black of the night sky had been draped with curtains of light that billowed and surged above the far horizon.
Alec pulled in to the side of the road. ‘How’s that for a Hogmanay show?’
Flora’s eyes shone as the sheets of colour turned from green to silver and back again. ‘Even the blackout can’t stop the Northern Lights.’
Still looking straight ahead to the northern horizon, she slipped her hand into his, and his fingers curled tight around hers as they sat in silence, watching the display. The ethereal glow bathed the landscape, transforming the familiar hills into a mysterious otherworld surrounding the waters of the loch, which reflected the swirling colours in their depths.
At last the dancing swathes of light began to fade, becoming fainter as the night stars reclaimed the sky, and the final reflections of the coloured strands sank into the darkening water.
Alec turned in his seat to look at Flora, watching as she gazed on the last of the pale green glow as it died away.
‘Would you come out with me? The next time we both have a day off? We could go to the beach at Firemore, or Slaggan Bay perhaps, if it’s fine. Do you remember when we walked there with your dad all those summers ago?’
She nodded. ‘It was August, I think,’ she recalled. ‘Just before you were about to go away to school for the first time. Ruaridh fell in the burn and was soaked. We’d to spread his things on a rock to dry. But then we all ended up in the sea anyway. It was a warm enough day that it didn’t matter.’
‘Well, we won’t be swimming at this time of year, that’s guaranteed, but we could take a picnic if we wrap up well.’ He was silent for a few moments, lost in thought. Then he asked her, ‘Do you still have the wee china horse?’
‘Of course,’ said Flora. ‘I keep it on the mantelpiece.’
There was no need to say more, although she remembered clearly the day all those years ago when she’d gone to collect pine cones for the fire in the wood above Ardtuath House. She’d heard a noise, a stifled sob, coming from the stables, and had peered in to find him sitting with his back against the rough boards of the garron’s stall, his face buried in his hands. It was the day he was to be sent away to a prep school in the south, the local primary no longer being deemed suitable for the son of the laird.
As she approached, the white pony had hung its broad muzzle over the half-door, as if trying to comfort the sobbing boy. Wordlessly, she had sat down beside Alec and put a hand on his shoulder. He’d raised his head then, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes to dash away the tears that stained his face, angry and embarrassed at having been seen.
‘It’s never going to be the same again, is it?’ he’d asked her, his anguish fraying the edges of his voice. ‘Everything’s going to change.’
‘Maybe some things will change. But this will always be here,’ she’d said, pointing to the view beyond the stable door. ‘The loch and the hills. And we will always be here, Ruaridh and the garron and me.’
He’d nodded slowly, then swallowed hard and squared his shoulders. ‘Please could you not say you saw me here?’
She didn’t speak, just reached for his hand and squeezed it by way of a reply.
He’d stood up then, brushing the straw from his jacket, and summoned a watery smile. ‘See you at Christmas?’ he said.
She’d nodded. ‘It’ll fly by, you’ll see.’
When he’d returned for the holidays, he had indeed changed. He seemed more assured, chatting happily about his new friends at school, the trials and tribulations involved in having to learn Latin and French and his hope that he’d be selected for the Second XV rugby team. Neither of them had ever mentioned the encounter in the stable again. But on that Christmas morning when Flora went to bring in a handful of sticks for the fire, she’d found a small pile of clumsily wrapped gifts on the doorstep. There was a wooden bootjack for Iain that Alec had sweated over in his woodwork classes at school and a neat horn-handled penknife for Ruaridh. And for Flora, there was the little white china horse with a blonde mane that she’d treasured ever since.
Now, he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it gently before drawing her to him and kissing her more deeply. Then, with a sigh that was a strange, shuddering mixture of joy and regret, he restarted the car. ‘Better get you home, or Iain will be out looking for you with his shotgun. I wouldn’t want to be the man in his sights!’
She laughed softly. ‘I think you’re probably the only man he wouldn’t shoot at. He trusts you.’