The Locket of Dreams Page 5
Everyone laughed and Eliza blushed, swatting her husband’s shoulder with her fan. For the next few minutes the four chatted amiably about the fine autumn weather, the state of the roads and the latest news from London. Then conversation turned to the land and Dungorm and Roderick’s new estate.
‘The way of the future is sheep,’ Roderick exclaimed vehemently. ‘The land needs to be cleared of all these rustic farmers, who bring in barely any money, and turned over to more profitable sheep. Except, of course, for some highland moors left wild for deer, grouse and pheasant so we can enjoy our hunting in autumn.’
Arabella nodded regally in agreement, her feather plume bouncing. Eliza frowned, twitching her fan.
‘Sheep and cattle are a good investment,’ Alexander agreed levelly. ‘We have good-sized flocks here at Dungorm and do very well with them. But it is important to diversify for the sake of our tenants.
‘Where would the crofters go if we turned them out of their homes? Many of the crofters’ families have lived at Dungorm for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. It is their home as much as ours.’
Roderick waved his hand as if brushing away a nuisance fly.
‘Pshaw,’ Roderick sneered. ‘All over the highlands, lairds are evicting tenants and burning down their disease-ridden hovels. Who cares where the vermin go? Probably back to the gutters where they belong.’
Eliza breathed in sharply, her cheeks flushing. ‘The crofters at Dungorm are hard-working, honest people,’ she retorted warmly. ‘As long as I am mistress of Dungorm they will have warm, solid homes to live in, plenty to eat and a good education for their children.’
Alexander squeezed her hand. ‘Eliza is right,’ he agreed. ‘The contract between laird and tenants must go two ways. The crofters till the land and pay their rent, but the laird must also care for his tenants’ welfare.’
‘Old-fashioned nonsense,’ snorted Roderick. ‘You always were too soft, Alexander. Next thing I suppose you will be supporting this nonsense of letting the common man vote.’
‘Soft or not, Dungorm is my land, and I will manage it as I see fit, so I suppose we must agree to disagree,’ allowed Alexander, with a forced smile. ‘Now, perhaps you would both like to partake of some refreshment. I have an excellent claret, Roderick, which you might enjoy.’
Alexander steered his brother and sister-in-law towards the refreshments tables. Arabella’s eyes appraised the treasures around her: the gilt mirrors, Persian rugs, discreet artworks, polished silverware and fine bone china.
Eliza straightened her shoulders, pasted on a bright smile and went to chat to a couple of dowagers.
‘Mama does not look happy with Uncle Roderick and Aunt Arabella, does she?’ whispered Nell. ‘I do not think she likes them.’
Upstairs on the landing a door opened and Nanny bustled out, a look of mock severity on her face.
‘Och, lassies,’ she whispered, trying not to attract the attention of the guests below. ‘Whate’er are you doing out of your beds at this hour? I have been down helping Cook with the party preparations and when I came up to check, ye were both missing. Now ’tis straight to bed with ye, and no nonsense.’
Nell yawned and scrambled up obediently.
‘But Nanny,’ argued Charlotte, frowning.
‘Do no’ Nanny me, young lassie,’ Nanny replied sternly. ‘’Tis off ye gae before my Laird and Lady Mackenzie pack me off without a reference to my name.’
Charlotte stood up slowly, a mutinous expression on her face.
Sophie watched the glittering scene below with yearning, but glided after Nell and Charlotte, her curiosity still burning. What happened to bring Charlotte from this life of bright luxury to the other side of the planet? What terrible tragedy happened to Alexander and Eliza to make the girls orphans at such a young age?
Sophie caught up with the girls as Nanny opened the door to the large, airy nursery. Flossie the dog flung herself on them all, as though she had been locked up for weeks and expected never to see them again.
Flossie jumped up on Charlotte and Nell, licking their hands and faces exuberantly. She wagged her tail frantically and licked Nanny’s fingers, begging not to be banished to the kennels. Then Flossie caught a sense of something or someone else.
Flossie whined and stared at Sophie, then barked sharply. Sophie jumped back, nearly fading through the doorjamb.
‘Whate’er is the matter with tha’ dog?’ Nanny asked in exasperation. ‘She has been behaving strangely lately. ’Tis as though she senses the wee folk about. I had best take her downstairs before the whole party hears her barking.’
Flossie turned her back on Sophie and stalked away to her cushion by the fire, her tail between her legs.
‘No, no, Nanny,’ begged Charlotte. ‘Please let her stay. Flossie will not make any more noise, will you, girl?’
Flossie thumped her tail obligingly, her liquid brown eyes staring up at them.
‘Please, Nanny, could you tell us a story before bed?’ added Nell, quickly changing the subject. ‘Tell us the one about the water horse and the tailor, or the brownies and the crofter.’
Nanny glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, hesitating.
‘Or perhaps the story of Jeannie Macdonald and the Fairy Queen?’ Nell jumped up onto her high bed and bounced.
‘Please, Nanny, I will never be able to sleep after all the excitement,’ pleaded Charlotte, scrambling hurriedly into bed and pulling up the sheets, trying to look angelic.
‘Well, just a wee one then,’ relented Nanny, turning down the lamps and sitting herself in the comfortable armchair by the fire, with her knitting. The click click of the needles set the rhythm for the story, while the fire crackled and spat, adding drama.
The girls cuddled down in their beds, soothed by the dim light and the familiar routine. Sophie floated closer to the fire, even though she could not actually feel its warmth. Flossie raised one eyebrow but did not growl.
‘Once upon a time there was a young lassie called Jeannie Macdonald, who lived on the Isle of Skye,’ began Nanny, her voice lilting and soft.
‘She was a foolish young lass who had a mind to see the fairy folk for herself, which everyone knows is a dangerous wish. Why, if you hear a banshee wailing, someone you love will die soon enough, but if you actually see one o’ the sprites – perhaps sitting in a branch, all dressed in white, combing its long, fair hair with a silver comb – then ye yourself are not long for this world.’
Charlotte wriggled further under her blankets with a shiver of anticipation. Sophie huddled closer to the comforting blaze of the fire, her bare toes on the tiled hearth.
‘Well, there was a fairy knowe near the village where Jeannie Macdonald lived. At full moon, the elves came out o’ their underground palace under the hill to dance and sing in the moonlight.
‘On these nights the islanders would lock their doors, shiver under their plaids and block their ears from the enchanted music. In the mornings on the hillside, there were often the marks o’ round fairy rings or tiny iron elf bolts.
‘One full-moon evening, Jeannie decided to hide in the heather to see what she could see. It was a cold, misty night, the clouds hiding the moon’s face, when foolish Jeannie watched and waited. She huddled in her plaid, freezing to the core, and the hours crept by as slow as snails.
‘At last, Jeannie was ready to give up and gae home to bed, when the clouds parted, revealing the silver moon and flooding the glen with cold, clear light. The moon was straight o’erhead, so Jeannie knew ’twas close to midnight.
‘A crack like thunder and the earth itself split open, revealing a doorway underground. Light and unearthly music spilled from the doorway into the darkness, followed by a host o’ strange folk, all laughing and chattering.
‘Jeannie knew they must be elves – each one was about three feet tall, with pale, pale skin, long pointed ears and flowing hair. Some rode on ponies and some came on foot. Jeannie froze in terror, her heart beating like a wild robin’s.’
Nanny paused to unsnag her ball of scarlet wool. The click click of the needles resumed, with the singsong of the story.
‘Jeannie Macdonald was just about to run all the way home to her own warm cottage when she saw the Fairy Queen, an elf of incredible beauty. She was dressed all in green, with eyes the same bright colour, and long fair hair, nearly to her knees.
‘She rode upon a white horse, shod with pure gold, with golden bells hung all around. Jeannie could not help but exclaim out loud in delight. The queen spied the human lass and beckoned her closer. Jeannie was entranced and her feet moved forward without her command.
‘The night passed by in a blur. There was dancing and singing and everything was rich and sumptuous. The fairies invited Jeannie back to their palace, a vast cavern lit with thousands o’ scented candles and strewn with unimaginable jewels and treasures.
‘Jeannie danced and sang and laughed, besotted with the beauty o’ the elven world. There was a feast o’ wonderful food and gold pitchers brimming with fragrant wine. Jeannie was passed a plate piled high with delicacies, and a jewelled golden goblet. She was just about to sip the wine when a voice spoke at her elbow.
‘“Take care, Jeannie Macdonald. Remember ne’er to taste o’ the fairy food or you will be a prisoner o’ the elves forever.” Jeannie turned around and there was a face she recognised. It was Tam O’Neill, who had been gone this many a long year, sorely missed by his grieving wife and bairns.
‘“Do no’ make the same mistake I made and now sorely regret,” whispered Tam. Jeannie dropped her plate of fairy cakes in horror. There was a loud shriek o’ rage from the Queen of Elfhame.
‘In the distance Jeannie heard a cock crow to welcome the dawn, and then a deep rumbling as the gate to fairyland began to close. Jeannie ran for her life and slipped through the crack with just seconds to spare.
‘Outside, the sun rose and there was no sign that the fairy feast had e’er been, except in her hand she clutched a tin cup filled with brackish water – a shabby, sorry thing with no jewels or gold.
‘Jeannie Macdonald threw it away in disgust and ran all the way home to the village, where she lived a long and happy life, ne’er more to be troubled by a yearning to see the little folk that live underground. On the night o’ the full moon, she locks her door tight, and pulls the plaid tight o’er her head, and sleeps all the bright night long.’
Nanny’s knitting needles ceased. She rolled her wool up neatly and placed it back in the basket.
‘Goodnight, Nanny,’ murmured Nell and Charlotte.
‘Guidnight, my bairns,’ whispered Nanny as she turned out the lamp and tiptoed away. ‘Do no’ let the wee folk trouble your dreams.’
‘Nanny, have you ever seen an elf?’ asked Nell sleepily.
‘Nae, lassie,’ Nanny replied gravely. ‘But I do no’ yearn for glittering fairy trinkets. Like Jeannie Macdonald, I ken my hame is where my hearth and heart be.’
Sophie felt warm and tired, and she slowly drifted away, up through the ceiling, up through the attic, up through the roof, up through the moonlit night and up through the long, black tunnel, straight into her own snug bed.
When Sophie woke up and stretched for the second time that morning, the sun was now shining brightly. She looked over to the other bed and saw that Jessica was already awake and gone.
With the heavy gold locket warm against her chest, Sophie climbed out of bed. She slipped the necklace off and laid it safely in the faded violet silk of the oak box, which she locked with the tiny key.
Sophie glanced down at her feet, noticing with shock that they were faintly smudged with black and grey. She frowned in puzzlement and tentatively scratched the dirt, sniffing it inquisitively. Her finger smelt smoky. Then it came to her in a flash.
Her heart thumping, Sophie sat down suddenly on the side of her bed. She had just realised that the black marks on her feet were ash and soot from a fire that had been lit on the other side of the world more than a hundred and fifty years ago.
‘It’s just too weird,’ Sophie said out loud. ‘It’s just not possible.’
Her black, dirty feet peeked back at her from the rug on the floor.
But how could they get so dirty if I spent all night in bed? Sophie wondered. Perhaps I was sleepwalking. But where did the ash come from? It’s summer in Australia with no fires around for kilometres. No-one is allowed to light one in case of bushfires. Perhaps there was a bushfire overnight and I was sleepwalking and stumbled through it? No, that’s ridiculous.
Somehow the idea of sleepwalking through a bushfire in suburban Sydney seemed far more ludicrous than the idea of visiting another country and another century while she slept.
Sophie gathered her clothes and went to the bathroom for a shower to scrub her dirty feet. She cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair and dressed quickly in shorts, T-shirt and runners.
In the kitchen Nonnie was making poached eggs and toast for breakfast, while Jess sipped on a cup of milky tea. There were three places set at the bench, each with neatly placed silver cutlery, teacup and saucer and a freshly ironed linen napkin.
A silver rack held slices of hot toast, while crystal dishes held curly balls of butter, glossy strawberry jam and golden homemade marmalade.
‘Good morning, darling,’ called Nonnie. ‘Did you sleep well? There’s tea in the pot if you would like some.’
‘Morning, Nonnie,’ replied Sophie, taking a seat at the kitchen bench. ‘Morning, Jess. Mmmm. Yes, please.’
Nonnie served the steaming eggs on sunny yellow plates, with buttery multi-grain toast. Sophie felt too preoccupied to eat, scenes from the past replaying through her mind.
‘Nonnie, how much do you know about Charlotte Mackenzie?’ asked Sophie, picking at her food and toying with her fork. ‘Where is Dungorm? Why do you think Charlotte would never talk about what happened?’
Nonnie laughed, patting her red-lipsticked mouth with her yellow napkin.
‘Still dreaming about Charlotte Mackenzie, Sophie?’ Nonnie asked. ‘It was all so long ago, so many years before I was even born.’
Sophie flushed a little but she was determined to find out as much as she could. ‘Please, Nonnie,’ she begged. ‘You must remember something more.’
Nonnie smiled at her enthusiasm and sat down.
‘Well, Charlotte was born in about 1846 on the west coast of Scotland, north of Glasgow,’ Nonnie mused. ‘The girls were sent to Australia in 1859, when Charlotte was thirteen and her sister, Nell, was eleven.
Sophie felt a flutter of alarm as she realised that in her visits to the past, Charlotte had already turned twelve, so that whatever took the lives of the girls’ parents must happen very soon.
‘I don’t know why the sisters were sent here, but the nineteenth century was a time of enormous change in Scotland, especially for the tenant farmers. Many rich landowners forced the crofters off the land to make way for highland sheep or red deer. The poor crofters were left homeless and starving so nearly two million people, a quarter of the Scottish population, emigrated to Australia, Canada or America looking for a better life.
‘Charlotte and Eleanor were not poor, so their example is not typical. I assume their uncle didn’t want to care for them and found someone over here to look after them.’
Sophie nodded, her eyes sparkling.
‘I have some old books on Scotland here,’ Nonnie added. ‘Would you like to look at them and see if you can find out more about the Mackenzies and Dungorm?’
Sophie agreed enthusiastically. The girls finished their breakfast, packed the dishwasher and put the breakfast things away. Nonnie poked her head around the door.
‘I have some phone calls to make and bills to pay. Why don’t you girls read through those books, then we’ll decide what we’re going to do today. I know Jess is keen to see a movie this afternoon,’ Nonnie suggested.
The books were old, with yellowing pages and a comforting smell. Sophie and Jessica flicked through them, noting maps, tart
ans, photos of old castles and heather-clad mountains, folk tales and poems. Jess had fun for a while, then wandered away to read her own book, curled up on a chaise longue on the verandah.
Sophie read a brief history of Scotland, from the ancient Celts who lived during the Bronze Age and the fierce Pictish warriors who painted strange blue designs on their faces during battle, through to the Viking invasions and clan wars.
The Scottish were a warring bunch, constantly fighting over land and power. It was a cruel and violent history, a prime example being when the Campbell clan tricked their way into the homes of the Macdonald clan at Glencoe, then after sharing their hospitality, forced the Macdonalds, including women, children and the elderly, out into the bitter snow, murdering them indiscriminately.
Sophie read on, intrigued by the tales of the Jacobite rebellion in the eighteenth century, when Bonnie Prince Charlie raised an army to try to claim the Scottish throne. At first, he was successful, capturing Edinburgh and routing the English, but finally the Jacobites were massacred in the battle at Culloden.
It was a romantic story, with Jacobite sympathisers hiding the young prince in secret cubbyholes and wild hills for months. At last, in 1746, a Scottish noblewoman called Flora Macdonald helped the prince to escape by dressing him as a woman and rowing him across to the Isle of Skye. A fortune in gold is believed to be buried somewhere in the Scottish highlands awaiting Prince Charlie’s return.
The English retaliated by banning all things Scottish, including bagpipes, kilts and the Gaelic language. By the 1850s, though – when Charlotte was living at Dungorm – Queen Victoria loved Scotland, so everything Scottish was highly fashionable.
Sophie moved on to read a book of Scottish fairytales with stories about all the many magic fairy folk who inhabited the Scottish landscape. The water spirits included kelpies, the handsome water horses who lived in the lochs and brooks; selkies, the mysterious seal people; and sea trowes, naughty spirits living under the sea.
Household spirits included brownies, who loved helping humans in return for gifts of food or milk; and bogles, mischievous creatures creating mess and mayhem, mostly just to annoy humans. Banshees foretold death. A changeling was the fractious baby of elves, placed in the cradle of a stolen human baby to trick the parents.