Heir To Glengyle. Miriam Macgregor

later, because of the clan’s support, the Act was repealed by Charles II. The words gave Cathie a feeling of relief until she read on to discover that it had been renewed by William of Orange when the clan had ranged itself on the side of the Jacobites, and Bonny Prince Charlie. Not until 1775, she learnt, had the penal statutes against the MacGregors finally been repealed.

      She had become so engrossed that she failed to hear Baird’s return until a sound caused her to look up and discover him watching her from the doorway. The expression on his face made her feel as if she’d been caught spying, but she met his gaze defiantly.

      ‘You’re taking the opportunity to read about your clan history?’ he queried, coming further into the room.

      ‘No—I’ve been delving into your clan history,’ she admitted with satisfaction. ‘Most interesting, I must say—especially the story of the Glenfruin fight and its results.’ She left the chair and replaced the book on the shelf, then swept past him to leave the room, but paused in the doorway to fling at him vehemently, ‘Don’t you dare throw Campbell atrocities at me. Your own clan has a long list that will match any you can produce.’ And, feeling she had won that particular round, she ran upstairs.

      A short time later he handed her flight ticket across the lunch table. She saw that its Economy class had been altered to Singapore Raffles class, which was more expensive and gave greater comfort. ‘I shall pay the difference,’ she declared with dignity.

      ‘You can argue about it with Amy,’ he retorted coldly.

      But when Amy vowed she knew nothing about it Cathie realised that Baird had paid the extra money and that she’d have little hope of forcing him to accept repayment. She then regretted her words to him in the library.

      * * *

      The next afternoon Cathie found herself in the back seat of Amy’s car while Baird drove them to Balquhidder. The road left Crieff to twist and wind through hilly tree-studded valleys, passing solidly built country homesteads with their equally solidly built barns. At times the roadside was colourful with a tall pink or white feathery weed, but it was the purple of the hillside heather that really caused her to catch her breath in sheer delight.

      There were times when Baird caught and held her gaze in the rear-view mirror, his frowning reflection causing her to wonder if he resented her presence as much as she suspected. In an effort to brush away the feeling of discomfort she dragged her attention away towards the black-faced sheep and brown shaggy-coated Highland cattle grazing peacefully in the fields.

      The long narrow waters of Loch Earn were seen through the trees, and at its head Amy gave directions to turn left, and a couple of miles further on to turn right. ‘This road leads to the Braes of Balquhidder and Loch Voil,’ she informed them.

      ‘What are braes?’ Cathie felt compelled to ask.

      ‘They’re slopes at the sides of a river valley,’ Amy explained. ‘And a narrow valley is what we call a glen.’

      The tree-lined road followed the contour of the hills through the glen, eventually reaching a small hillside church with its cluster of graves. Beside it were the stone-walled ruins of an earlier church, while only a short distance away the still waters of Lock Voil lay glistening at the base of encircling heather-clad hills.

      Baird drove up the short rise and stopped the car in the church parking area. He opened the door for Amy, who got out a little stiffly with one hand gripping her walking stick, and he then led her towards the headstones.

      Cathie lingered behind, hesitating to intrude into these moments of nostalgia, but Amy’s voice called to her.

      ‘Come over here, dear. I’ll show you the grave of the most famous MacGregor of them all. You’ve heard of Rob Roy, of course. He has become a Robin Hood type of legend and was the finest guerilla fighter of his day.’

      Cathie joined them to stand at the grave which contained the remains of not only Rob Roy, but also of his wife Mary, and two of his sons. On the simple dark stone above them were three words. ‘MACGREGOR DESPITE THEM.’

      Amy went on to explain, ‘Those words come from the old song, “The MacGregors’ Gathering”, which state, “MacGregor despite them shall flourish forever.” They’re easily understood when you know of the clan’s trials and tribulations, and how they were outlawed.’

      Her words were followed by a silence broken only by the singing of a thrush. It was perched directly behind them on the stone gable of the ruined church with its date of 1631, and as they turned to look up at it Amy said casually, ‘No doubt you know that Rob Roy’s mother was a Campbell, therefore when his own name was forbidden to be used he took the name of Campbell.’

      Cathie began to giggle. ‘Yes—I read about it yesterday in the library.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry—one shouldn’t laugh in a cemetery.’

      The thrush sang even louder. It was almost as though it understood the situation, and was also having a hearty laugh.

      Baird took Amy’s arm again and they made their way towards the more recent church that stood on higher ground. It appeared to be built of stone similar to the ruined church, and as she entered its cool interior Cathie became conscious of its peaceful atmosphere.

      Strangely, the frustrations that Baird seemed to stir within her were wiped away, and she felt an inner happiness while standing beside him to run her hand over the font which had been gouged out of a large hunk of local stone at some unknown earlier date.

      The feeling of peace was still with her as they stood close together to examine the bell of the old church which bore the date of 1684. But suddenly her spirits plummeted as she learnt that the Session Chest upon which it rested had belonged to ‘Black Duncan’ Campbell of Glenorchy who had died in 1631, and who had been a ruthless persecutor of Clan MacGregor.

      The knowledge made her feel sick, and she moved from Baird’s side to where Amy was putting money in the donation box. Baird followed her, and as she opened her handbag to follow Amy’s example he spoke in a dry tone.

      ‘I trust the spirits in this place won’t look upon that as tainted money.’

      Amy caught his words. She looked at him in a reproving manner then said, ‘Come—I’ll show you where your grandparents used to sit.’ She then led the way towards the front pews, the firm tapping of her walking stick indicating that she was displeased.

      Baird and Cathie followed meekly until they were four pews from the front, where Amy had paused.

      ‘Cathie, sit in there,’ the older woman commanded while pointing at the pew seat with her stick. ‘Baird, you will sit beside her. You will hold her hand.’

      A faint smile played about his lips as he sat beside Cathie and took her hand. ‘What is this, Amy? What are you driving at?’ he queried as though humouring her.

      ‘You are now sitting where your grandfather always sat when he came to this church. Think about it,’ she ordered with an impatient tap on the floor with her stick.

      There was silence for a few moments before he said, ‘OK—I’ve thought. So what?’

      ‘You mentioned the spirits in this place,’ Amy reminded him. ‘Ask them to remove the antagonism that lies between yourself and Cathie—who is sitting where your grandmother always sat.’

      He grinned. ‘Are you sure they could do that?’

      ‘If you could contact your grandfather he’d soon tell you what to do,’ Amy declared with conviction.

      Baird’s brows rose. ‘You reckon? So what would that be?’

      ‘He’d tell you to take that girl in your arms and kiss her—now.’ The stick positively banged on the floor.

      Baird turned to look at Cathie, whose cheeks had become pink. ‘I’ve just had a message from above,’ he told her gravely, then took her in his arms and kissed her.