The Lost Dreams. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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drifting clouds hovering overhead. “There’ll be rain later on,” he remarked with the satisfied assurance of one who knew his weather.
Charlotte looked up and nodded in solemn agreement. He was right. When wild gusts moved inland, they brought heavy warm rain in their wake. She smiled, chatted for a few minutes and sighed inwardly. It was sweet how the locals still called her Miss Charlotte, even though she’d been married for years.
“I hear the new lordship’s arriving shortly.” The statement was followed by a dour sniff.
“Yes. He’s meant to be here early next week,” Charlotte responded enthusiastically.
“Aye. And about time too. It’ll nae do fer him to stay away from the land too long.”
“Brad’ll be here. Don’t worry. He’s a good sort,” Charlotte encouraged, cringing at the note of disapproval she heard in the old man’s voice. Speculation in the village and among the tenants was rife.
“Aye. I remember him as a wee laddie.” Fergus Mackay straightened his cap and smiled sadly, his eyes surprisingly blue and bright under thick bushy white brows. “’Tis a pity yer ain’ brother Colin passed on, Miss Charlotte. A fine laird he woulda’ made. We’re all agreed on that.”
“He would. But it wasn’t to be. Brad wasn’t brought up here and hasn’t had the advantage of knowing you all the way Colin did, but I’m sure he intends to do his best. And the more help he gets from all of us, the easier things will be and a better job he’ll do. For all of us,” she added pointedly, hoping that by paving the way with old Mackay, an elder in the church who held strong influence over his peers, she’d ease Brad’s transition.
They conversed for several minutes, then the tractor continued its lumbering course up the hill and Charlotte drove on down toward the sea and the village. She glanced up to her right at the castle, rising rugged and alone.
A shard of sunlight washed the weathered stones of the east turret, illuminating the faerie emblem of the MacLeod flag, fluttering proudly in the brisk breeze. Before she could stop them, another rush of tiresome tears made her jerk her head away. Stop it, she commanded herself, biting her lip. It was ridiculous to get sentimental and silly about Strathaird. The castle was moving on, as it always had and always would. It was nothing new or different from what had occurred in the past. Merely the last male MacLeod, the heir to Strathaird, was coming home, as was right and proper. But how long would he stay? she wondered, swerving into the village, past the snug harbor packed with colorful fishing boats and into the main street, thinking still of all the inevitable adjustments that were bound to take place. If Brad were to do the job properly and stake his claim as laird, he’d have to introduce his own ideas and innovations.
And what about Mummy, without whose quiet yet efficient hand everything would have run amuck? What would happen once Brad and Sylvia were installed and they didn’t need her any longer? she wondered, heart aching.
Charlotte drove between the narrow row of whitewashed houses. With an effort, she sent Mrs. Bane, the newsagent, a bright smile and a wave, thinking worriedly about her mother’s situation. Penelope MacLeod was an integral and fundamental piece in the smooth running of the estate. She knew everything. The tenants, their worries and needs, how to handle the drove of MacLeods who appeared every year from all over the world, anxious to trace their ancestry and who always received a warm personal welcome from Lady MacLeod herself, however inconvenient, before she sent them on their way to Dunvegan, the seat of the MacLeod clan.
As for what she herself did around the estate, Charlotte thought that was less important. Still, perhaps she valued her involvement more than she liked to admit, she realized uneasily. How would it feel, now that Sylvia, and not she, would be doing those same things?
She parked in front of the Morissons’ quaint house on the edge of the village and waved to Genny and Lucy, waiting for her, heads together, on the front steps. Genny was wearing baggy pants and a T-shirt, her colorful backpack slung over her right shoulder. The friendship with Lucy had helped her become part of the group, Charlotte realized, watching as the two girls hugged before Genny came down the path toward her and circled the vehicle. As always, Charlotte had to stop herself from jumping out and helping her climb in, knowing she must allow her daughter to be independent.
“Have a lovely time?” she asked as Genny settled beside her. Gosh, how she’d grown this last year. And with her trendy clothes, really looked like a teenager. Like every mother, she smiled with pride and listened, amused, to Genny’s description of the sleepover at Lucy’s.
“You’re not too tired?” she inquired as they drove down the village street headed for school.
“No. It was cool, Mum.” Genny turned and smiled. “Can I tell you a secret, Mummy?”
“Of course.”
“You sure?” Genny cocked her red head warily.
“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense,” Charlotte urged, suppressing a smile.
“Lucy’s decided she wants to be a famous actor like Daddy.”
“Really? Well, that’s a change,” Charlotte countered. “Three weeks ago she wanted to be a vet.”
“I know, but she’s changed her mind. She’s going to cut her hair. Mummy, can I have a belly piercing?”
“What?” Charlotte nearly swerved into an oncoming vehicle.
“Why not, Mum? Everybody has a piercing. You have a tattoo,” she added reproachfully. “If you were my age I’ll bet you’d have rings all over you.”
“Perhaps. But I probably would have regretted it by now,” Charlotte argued, remembering the follies of her youth and feeling hypocritical all at once. “Piercing’s so…I don’t know. It gives me the creeps. Why don’t you wait until the twins arrive and see what they think?”
“I don’t need male approval to be myself,” Genny replied grandly as they drew up in front of her school. Dropping a peck on her mother’s cheek, she alighted slowly and Charlotte sighed. Last year it had been, “Todd thinks,” and “Rick says.”
She did a U-turn and drove back the few hundred yards into the main street of the village, parked askew opposite the gallery and got out, slamming the car door a tad harder than she’d intended. Frowning absently, she walked toward the gallery.
“Ah, Charlotte.” The strident voice of Marjory Pearson hailed from across the street, bringing her to an abrupt halt.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pearson.” There was no escape, she realized, heart sinking. Mrs. P. stood firmly entrenched on the opposite side of the street in front of the gallery, hands gripping the handlebar of her prewar bike. She was sensibly attired in her usual outfit of corduroy knickerbockers, the tweed jacket she wore rain or shine, topped by a green felt hat with a long feather acquired on one of her yearly visits to the Tyrol.
“Off to your gallery, I see,” Mrs. P. remarked over the bicycle’s reedy basket, plump with groceries. “I was just looking in your window,” she added, shaking her head in amazement. “I’m surprised anyone would spend such ridiculous amounts of money on frivolity. It goes against the grain,” she added, glancing disapprovingly toward the gallery window and sniffing. “Just shows one what the world’s coming to.” She peered closely at Charlotte. “I had my doubts about this venture of yours,” she continued grudgingly, “but I suppose you’re quite right to encourage the tourists to spend, my dear, quite right indeed. I myself thought trinkets would have been more suitable, but the Colonel was saying just the other day that he believes you have talent.”
This last was said with the satisfied air of one bestowing high praise. She sent Charlotte a condescending look of approval. “I must say, Charlotte, you’ve come a long way,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “I never would have thought after the way you behaved in your youth that you’d end up being an example of female behavior to the community. As the Colonel repeats again and again, we must not judge.” She leaned over, her wrinkled face too close for comfort.