Highland Laddie Gone

CHAPTER EIGHT

“O where and o where is your Highland laddie gone?”

Elizabeth opened her eyes. There it was again. “The Bluebells of Scotland” being sung by… Geoffrey? She squinted at the sunlight streaming through the window. Impossible. Geoffrey would never sing a Scottish folk song; tunes from Threepenny Opera were more his style. And where was Cameron? She looked around. Cluny was curled on a blanket in the armchair, still asleep; of Cameron there was no sign.

“… is your Highland laddie gone…”

Elizabeth, now wide awake, finally got the message. Scrunching down under the covers, she called out, “Yes, Geoffrey! My Highland laddie is gone! You can come out now!”

A blue-robed form sped past and slammed the bathroom door. “And don’t use all the hot water!” Elizabeth called after him.

Some time later, Elizabeth, in a strapless yellow sundress, was towel-drying her hair while Geoffrey made coffee in the electric percolator.

“How was your evening, cousin?” he asked pleasantly.

Elizabeth looked up suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“Just making conversation, dear. I am a notoriously sound sleeper, you know. Nothing disturbs me.”

“Then what prompted you to ask if my Highland laddie were gone?” she demanded. “You were asleep when we got back.”

“Call of nature about four A.M.,” Geoffrey murmured. “Do you want any of this powdered stuff in your coffee?”

“Cameron forgot to find out where his hosts were staying,” said Elizabeth, blushing.

“I wish I had the sort of mooncalf manner that could pull off a line like that,” said Geoffrey wistfully. “People always seem to suspect me of ulterior motives, no matter how subtle I’ve been.”

“And I know how you spent your evening,” said Elizabeth, pointing to the empty bottle in the wastebasket. “Up to no good, as usual.”

“On the contrary,” Geoffrey retorted. “I was made the Earl of Strathclyde last night.”

As Walter Hutcheson turned the corner with sausage rolls and coffee balanced on a cardboard tray, he nearly collided with his wife. Heather was not looking particularly Scottish in her gold metallic Chinese sheath with the slit sides, but she thought that the sexiness of the outfit more than compensated; the stiletto heels gave her much-needed extra height and complemented her legs, as well.

“Up early, aren’t you?” she said.

“Thought I’d get us some breakfast. I was looking for Colin, too. He said something about wanting a committee meeting this morning.”

Heather scowled. “What a tiresome old bampot he is. You’re not going to go off all day, are you?”

“No. I just thought I might see him. Shall we go and sit down?”

Heather followed him to one of the picnic tables under the refreshment tent without noticeable enthusiasm. She made a face at the sausage rolls and reached for one of the coffees.

Walter glanced uneasily at his wife’s diamond earrings and pendant, then returned his gaze to his own cup. Was it Scott Fitzgerald who said “The rich are different from you and me”? So was the aristocracy, he thought with a heavy heart. He imagined people taking Heather’s costume at face value-and of course assuming that the diamonds were rhinestones, which they most certainly were not.

“That’s not very… ethnic,” he said gently.

Heather’s eyes widened. “Not ethnic? Chinese is about as bloody ethnic as it comes.”

“But, honey, you’re not Chinese.”

“Well, there’s not many Scots about up here, is there? But you don’t see it stopping them from wearing kilts.”

“That reminds me. One of the folks running a souvenir booth is a Scotsman, and he’d like very much to meet you.”

Heather frowned. “And why is that?”

“I believe I may have mentioned your family connections.”

“Oh, Batair, sod off.”

“He’s a nice old fellow. White hair and a beard, bit red in the face. Has hypertension, I wouldn’t doubt,” he said, lapsing into his professional manner. “I bought that tartan scarf from him, and he was most helpful.”

“I know who you mean. Perhaps I’ll stop and have a natter with him later.”

“That’s my girl.” Walter smiled. “Well, it’s nearly time for the sheepdog events. I think I’ll go over and take a look at them. Want to come?”

“I’ll join you in a bit,” said Heather. She had not forgotten that the principal exhibitor in the dog trials was Batair’s former wife.

Lachlan Forsyth smiled at the blushing young lady in the yellow sundress. “Now what would you be wanting to know a thing like that for? ‘I love you’ in Gaelic, is it? Fancy!”

“Oh… I was just interested,” murmured Elizabeth, turning a deeper shade of red. “Don’t you know how to say it?”

“Oh, aye. But it’ll no do you any good tae learn it.” Seeing her stricken look, he said gently, “I mean because of your young man, lassie. He’s from Edinburgh. He doesna know Gaelic from orégano, and doesn’t care to learn. If you really want to impress him, forget about that Celtic rubbish and learn to hold your fork in your left hand-so you don’t have to switch the cutlery round when you’re using the knife. Look out now, company’s coming.”

Elizabeth turned and saw Geoffrey and Cameron heading toward the stall. She wondered if she was still blushing.

“Ah,” said Geoffrey. “I see you’ve met my friend, the Thane of Cawdor, Elizabeth. And look who I found. He was at the refreshment tent, trying to order a hot dog with lettuce and tomato. Said he wanted to try American food.”

“Apparenüy I still need a guide,” said Cameron to Elizabeth. “Are you still available?” Elizabeth nodded, with an expression best described as simpering.

“Run along now, children!” said Geoffrey briskly. “All this honey and pancake syrup is making Uncle Geoffie queasy.”

“Let’s go and see the sheepdog trials,” murmured Elizabeth.

“What are they charged with?” asked Cameron.

“Dog trials! Perhaps I’d better go with you,” said Geoffrey. “Got to run, Lachlan. Catch you later!”

“Don’t be too sure of that, lad,” muttered Lachlan when they were gone.

“Is everything okay?” asked James Stuart, at his elbow. “You been acting kind of funny today.”

“Oh, fine, lad!” said Lachlan absently. “How are you coming along with your sales percentage?”

“I’m about two-thirds of the way there,” said Jimmy.

“Well, what do you say I let you have it for that, then?”

“And I’d be through working then? I could go back to my parents?”

“That’s right.”

“No way,” said Jimmy, turning back to the rack of clan ties.

“A-weel…” Lachlan straightened up suddenly. “Jimmy, why don’t you slip round to the refreshment tent and get us a shandy, if they have any left?”

Jimmy took money and hurried off through the crowd, wondering vaguely if Lachlan’s ESP was troubling him again. He glanced back and saw the old man talking to a blonde in an oriental outfit. He would have given a lot to know what clan Lachlan would contrive for that.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Glencoe Mountain Highland Games herding competition…” Over the scratchy loudspeaker, it sounded like hernia composition. Three black and white border collies were crouched at the sidelines beside their respective owners waiting for the signal to begin. The announcer explained that because of space limitations and-he paused-other considerations (“Sheep shit,” said Geoffrey), the dogs would be herding ducks instead of sheep. “Our first contestant is a five-year-old border collie, Somerled of Skye Laird, owned and trained by Marjorie Carter Hutcheson. Somerled won the competition last year.”

“Isn’t he beautiful?” said Elizabeth. “I remember when he was just a puppy.”

“By the pricking of my thumbs…” muttered Geoffrey as Marge approached the wooden duck box.

The three of them were sitting with a group of pipers in full costume. The piping events were next on the program, and the young men had brought their instruments and a deck of cards to while away the time before their performance. Cameron was watching the card game with a studied air of nonchalance, but he kept glancing nervously at the field.

“This is a wonderful event,” Elizabeth prattled on. “Would you like me to explain it to you?” She waved encouragingly to Marge and Somerled.

“I would thou couldst,” Geoffrey intoned.

Elizabeth frowned. “Are you barding again?”

On the field, the dog was wriggling with anticipation as the door to the box swung open. Five white ducks waddled out uncertainly into the sunlight and began to wander off in five different directions. Somerled, whose first job was to march the feathered troops through a concrete pipe, crouched before one duck, intending to drive it back into the group. Unfortunately for the veteran collie, it was a rookie duck. Instead of trotting back to the platoon, it emitted a honk of outrage and flapped its wings. This gave Somerled pause: in his experience, ducks never argued back. He lunged at the left flank of the rest of the group, attempting to steer them toward the pipe. More honking and flapping.

“That’s odd,” said Elizabeth. “I wonder what’s the matter with the ducks.”

One of them had broken away from the group and was making a determined rush toward the crowd. Somerled abandoned the rest and gave chase, trying to circle in front of the deserter. Marge’s look of astonishment had turned to anger, and she was conferring with the competition judge, who kept shrugging and shaking his head.

“Good gracious!” said Elizabeth. “You’d think those ducks had never seen a dog before!”

“Bring me no more reports; let them fly all!” moaned Geoffrey.

Cameron, who had once played Malcolm in the sixth form, replied, “I’ll to England.” Geoffrey threw him a look of gratitude. “To Ireland, I.” He nodded, getting to his feet. “Our separated fortune shall keep us both the safer.” “What is the matter with you two?” demanded Elizabeth. “Oh, dear, look at that duck!”

Standing up was Geoffrey’s chief mistake: Marge recognized him. She made it to the edge of the crowd almost as fast as the duck had, and pointed accusingly at Geoffrey. “You! I saw you messing with that herding box yesterday! What is wrong with those ducks?”

In considerably less than Shakespearean tones, Geoffrey told her; but Walter Hutcheson, who had been watching from the other side of the field, had not stayed to see the confrontation. He had seen the fiasco made of Somerled’s herding efforts, and immediately suspected sabotage. Several bystanders distinctly heard him say “Colin Campbell!” before he stalked away.

Afterward, everyone agreed that things could have been much worse. Geoffrey hadn’t been seriously injured, and the piper found, after playing a few trial notes, that his bagpipe hadn’t been damaged at all.

Andy Carson looked at his watch for the third time in as many minutes. The parade of the clans should have started ten minutes ago, even allowing for the usual tardiness. He wondered if he should go ahead and start his speech and let the stragglers catch up. Still, he didn’t like to begin with a clan chief missing. It was hot, though; and Scotch and Gatorade had turned out not to be such a brilliant idea after all.

“Is Ramsay here yet?” he asked Margaret McLeod.

“Yes, he just arrived. Everyone has signaled ready except the Campbells.”

Andy shrugged. Normally, Colin Campbell was the first one on the field and the most vociferous complainer about latecomers.

“Shall I go and get him?” asked Margaret, consulting her clipboard.

“I suppose. I’ll do my introductory speech while you’re gone. Just do hurry him up, will you?”

Elizabeth, who had changed back to her kilt for the ceremony, was present but not yet in place. “This won’t take long,” she promised Cameron. “You have to be wearing the clan colors to participate, though, so I’m afraid you’ll have to watch it from here. Hold Cluny’s leash, will you, while I tie his tartan ribbon?”

Cameron took hold of the leash and looked around at the mass of people crowding the field. He didn’t see any signs of weapons, though. “Just what is going to happen now?” he asked uneasily.

“The parade of clans. The master of ceremonies will make his speech, and introduce guests, and then each clan will march out on to the field, shout its battle cry, and stand off to the side until all the clans have been presented.”

“And then what?” No cannons, either.

Elizabeth smiled. “Then I change back into my sundress, and you take me to lunch.”

“Right. How’s Geoffrey?”

“He stayed at the cabin with a washcloth across his forehead, doing the death scene from Hamlet.”

“As whom?”

“Oh, everyone. Geoffrey feels that death is too important to be enacted only once.” She took back Cluny’s leash. “Time to join the clan. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Margaret McLeod clasped her clipboard protectively to her chest. Rousing the Campbell boar from his lair was not her idea of a pleasant morning’s work, and she wished she had thought to tell someone to go and get the blasted chief, but there was no time for that now. She could already hear Dr. Carson’s nasal tones droning over the loudspeaker.

Another disagreeable thought occurred to her. Suppose Campbell was drunk. He would hardly be alone in experiencing that condition, she thought ruefully, but it might make it difficult to get him to the ceremony. She should have brought help, she thought, looking up at the camper door. Oh, well… She tapped gently. “Dr. Campbell? It’s late! The ceremony has begun!”

Nothing.

“Dr. Campbell! Are you in there?” Margaret tried the door handle, hoping that she was not about to find out what Colin wore under his kilt.

The door swung open, and she found herself face-to-face with the clan chief himself. “You’re late!” Margaret cried, before she got a good look at him and discovered that he was indeed the late Colin Campbell.