“Forgive me, McColl.” Drew looked stricken. “I intended no disrespect.”
Beneath the tablecloth, Reginald felt Lauren’s hand settle over his. The casual stroke of her thumb over the back of his hand calmed him enough to regain his wits. He turned his hand palm up, captured her fingers, and held on.
“Dinnae fash, Drew. None taken.” Though he couldnae say the same regarding Lauren’s brash sister. “Ye’re correct about Fergus McColl. He is my uncle. Uh…many-times removed, ye ken. But ’twas my own family who resided here in the glen, no’ Fergus. He only visited, from time tae time. At least, as I understand it,” he added as he glanced at Deidre, then back to Drew. “But since ’twas near three centuries ago, ’tis impossible tae ken the real truth of those ancient rumors. Is it no’? ’Twas a tumultuous time, after all.”
“Well, even if the rumors were true, I believe we all have a Fergus somewhere in our lines, if we look close enough.” Drew smiled and raised his glass. “To family. The good ones and…the rest.” He acknowledged everyone around the table. His pause, when he got to Deidre, was almost imperceptible before giving Reginald a wink and draining the contents.
For the first time since leaving Hugh and the remaining 79 at Wickham’s, Reginald believed it possible to have a friendship with someone else. Too bad he’d no’ get the chance to find out. His plan to leave, once he saw the names on the graves and did what he could to pay his respects to his parents, hadnae changed.
He had much to do to clear his family name. Especially if Fergus’ reputation had stretched through all these centuries.
“To family,” echoed around the table.
“Well then, I say we eat, before the soup cools,” Aunt Phoebe said pleasantly, slipping her napkin onto her lap before taking up her spoon. “But, allow me to express how much it means to have my family around me. You, my dear girls, traveled so far to help me, and you, gentlemen, have brightened my days considerably. Thank you, all.” Her eyes glistened slightly as she dipped her head. “Now eat!” she commanded with a quivering chin.
Reginald reluctantly released Lauren’s hand and, like the others, gave his attention to the savory soup.
“Wait a minute,” Deidre cried. “You can’t just leave a story hanging like that.” She looked from Drew to Reginald. “I know enough Scottish history to know theJacobite dayswere clear back in the 1700’s. What made dear oldUncle Fergusso infamous that he’d be remembered all these centuries later?”
“Deidre!” Aunt Phoebe scolded.
Reginald held up his hand. “ ’Tis fine. And no secret, in any case.”
He turned to Deidre. “ ’Twas just the sort ofdelicious scandalye spoke of. Uncle Fergus was accused of stealing the gold and silver, both coin and trinket, gathered from those living in this area who supported the Jacobite cause. ’Twas entrusted tae Fergus, tae deliver to the Jacobite leaders tae help fund and feed the starvin’ army. But neither he, nor the treasure, were ever seen again. The donations came from families who had nothin’ tae give, ye ken. But they dug deep for their few hard-won coins, wedding rings, broaches, family heirlooms. They gave all they had,for freedom. And Fergus McColl,they say, stole it all and disappeared. A crime made far more evil by its moral depravity.”
Reginald still remembered the mixture of pain and resolve on his father’s face when he handed over his single treasure; an ornate hammered gold ring, made by his great, great grandsire on the occasion of his wedding. One of a matched pair he’d made for himself and his bride. His grandmother’s ring had been lost, along with her, when a boat she was in, capsized.
After that, his grandsire never took his ring off until he passed it to his eldest son on his own wedding day. The tradition was repeated with each subsequent generation, all of whom considered the ring with the hand-engravedMan omen of a love as deep and strong as the grandparent’s love had been.
Reginald had grown up knowing that someday when he married, the ring would be passed to him. But he kenned, along with his father, the ring was sacrificed for a cause far more valuable to all the generations to come.
Their freedom.
All were silent around the table, including Deidre. This time when Lauren’s hand touched his, it was above the table. He gave her fingers a brief squeeze before picking up his spoon. He’d finish this damned soup if it killed him.
Chapter Nine
Thankful to finally be outside, away from prying eyes and uncomfortable conversation, Reginald leaned his bulk against the porch post, grateful for a few moments alone.
The revelation that Drew and his family knew of Uncle Fergus’ shameful legacy, still unnerved him. ’Twas all he could do to sit there and not argue that he dinnae believe Fergus to be capable of something so heinous, and neither had his da. Apparently, naught had happened over the centuries to dispute Fergus’ guilt. So, ’twas futile for Reginald to do so, at least for now, when he had no evidence to the contrary.
Just yesterday, Hugh had argued that no one would remember Fergus, or his supposed treachery, all these centuries later. That Reginald was on a foolish quest.
God’s teeth, but he wished Hugh had been right!
Reginald snorted his disgust over his own arrogance. All these years, he kenned all he needed was mortality and he could set the record straight about his uncle. Just a quick stop back at the old place, and he’d set things in order, straight away. ’Twas clear his brain had moldered along with his body, while he’d languished on the moor.
Och! He needed to get Uncle Fergus out of his head until he could think more clearly and decide where to go from here.
He stared at the line of trees to the east where his home once stood. Though he kenned there was likely naught left of it, he yearned to see what there was, just the same. But he’d promised to wait for Lauren who’d stayed to help clear away the lunch things.
After turning Deidre down, yet again, for the horse ride, restating his desire to search out his ancestor’s graves, and after Phoebe’s ‘all’s well’, regarding her ankle, Lauren had asked to explore with him. He no’ only couldnae deny her, he longed for the opportunity to be alone with her again.
’Twas imperative that he stay vigilant and try to see everything through new eyes, nae those of the child who grew up here and kenned too much of its history.
Truth be told, itwasnew. At least in the ways time and man had changed it. But nothing had altered his connection to the land, nor those who’d walked it, before him.
Hearing the distant whinny of one of the horses, he turned his attention toward the neatly sectioned pastures, and beyond, into the open glen. Clearly, Crayton had an eye for both nature and order. He’d created something truly spectacular, here. Riding paths wound naturally around small thickets of trees, through wildflower strewn meadows, across the bridged streams, and into the base of the hills.
