need of a break. You ought to be able to hold down the fort for a quarter of an hour. Change is in the tin box there. One last thing. Tartan ties are eight dollars, and scarves are ten. Got it?”
James Stuart nodded. “Ties eight; scarves ten.”
“Right. Do your best, lad. Remember your five per cent.” He hurried away from the stall with a beaming smile to an approaching customer. “My assistant will be happy to help you, mum!” he called back.
The woman fingered the rack of plaids. “I’m a Logan, and I’d like to get a tartan for my husband. How much are they?”
James Stuart gave his best imitation of his mentor’s feral smile. “Yes, ma’am. Logan. The ties are ten dollars, and the scarves are twelve. Cash.”
CHAPTER FOUR
CLUNY, sprawled on the warm grass in feline oblivion, looked considerably more comfortable than Elizabeth felt. She was holding her third cup of ice water-trying to decide whether to drink it or pour it over her head-when Betty Carson appeared with a stranger in tow.
“Elizabeth! Wonderful to see you!” She gave Elizabeth the hug that Southern women substitute for a cordial nod. “I know everyone must be frantic because I’m so late.”
“They’ve managed to bear up,” said Elizabeth, glancing at the lawn-chair contingent. They were still discussing home computers without visible signs of distress.
Betty Carson’s steel-ribbed smile took in the idyllic scene and the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. “Leave them to me,” she said briskly. “I’ll get this bunch working. Oh, Elizabeth! This is Cameron Dawson, a new professor in Andy’s department, and you’ll never guess where he’s from!” The young man looked so embarrassed by this that Elizabeth decided not to try. When no answer was forthcoming, Betty said triumphantly, “Edinburgh! Isn’t it grand? He’s practically right off the plane. Anyway, I have a blue million things to do, so I’m leaving him in your charge. Cameron, you’ll be in good hands. She’s Maid of the Cat for your clan. I’ll find you later!”
Cameron watched his hostess march off toward the Chattan tent, with the sinking feeling of one who has been abandoned in the asylum. His new keeper was a frazzled young woman in what appeared to be a wool outfit, with a lynx on a chain lead. He wondered if she represented anybody famous; Morgan Le Fay came to mind, but it might be uncivil to ask. He thought she might be very pretty in a less ludicrous climate. What must the temperature be on this mountain? They’d measure it in Kelvin degrees, he was certain of that. Cameron dabbed at his forehead and endeavored to look pleasant.
“Hello,” said the young woman. “My name is Elizabeth. I guess you can tell my last name,” she added, pointing to her skirt.
What can she mean? thought Cameron. A last name from a skirt… Weaver? Taylor? Dirndl?
“I don’t understand,” he admitted.
“Didn’t you recognize the MacPherson tartan?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I don’t know much about that sort of thing.”
“I thought Betty said you were Clan MacPherson.”
“So she tells me,” sighed Cameron. “Actually, I’m a marine biologist, and I’m much more familiar with porpoises and seals than with history.”
“Seals! Oh, the Selkies! Banished to the sea for being neutral in the battle of good and evil.
Cameron stared. He knew that there was an odd religious sect somewhere in Virginia; his hosts had mentioned it in passing. Perhaps she was a member. At any rate, she seemed to believe in animal transmutation. He nodded toward the bobcat. “What about him?”
“Cluny? He’s a bobcat. I’m Maid of the Cat.”
“Ah. He’s your father then?”
“Who?”
“The lynx.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Are you sure you’re a biologist?”
“Practically the only thing I’m certain of just now. Why?”
“Because, if you think people are descended from bobcats, you’ll be a novelty at the university.”
“Oh, that. I was humoring
Elizabeth smiled. “Folklore,” she said. “I’m doing graduate work in anthropology. Would you like me to show you around?”
“Might as well. I suppose I should see what these things are like.”
“I guess the ones in Scotland are much larger,” said Elizabeth.
“Don’t know. Never went to one.”
She glanced at his shorts and Save-the-Whales T-shirt. “And I suppose you thought it was too hot to wear your kilt today?”
“Haven’t got one.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Look,” she said, “do you speak Gaelic? Do you play a bagpipe? Do you read Walter Scott? Do you believe in the Loch Ness monster?”
“None of the above. Sorry.”
She grinned. “Well, come along. I’ll be your guide. God knows you’re going to need one.”
Lachlan Forsyth and his orange-kilted companion had stopped to watch the dancers practice, careful to be just out of earshot of the other spectators. Lachlan, nodding in time to the tape-recorded bagpipe music, seemed unaware of the other’s nervousness. “Lovely tune that,” he remarked. “It’s a doddle to dance to.”
Jerry Buchanan glanced nervously about. “Can we talk here?” he whispered.
“Aye, laddie, and we’d be that much safer if you would’na look sa guilty.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to jeopardize the Cause.”
“I know,” said Lachlan kindly.
“It’s going all right, isn’t it? I haven’t read anything about it in the newspapers.”
“I know.”
“Is that good?”
“Aye.”
“Have you been in touch with…” Jerry couldn’t think of any discreet way to phrase it. “With anybody?” he finished lamely.
“Aye. The secret is safe, but the progress is slow. It’s a matter of money. We’d get donations if we advertised, but we have to be particular about who we tell.”
“Is there going to be any kind of a sign here at the games? Some way that I can tell who’s with the Cause.”
“Aye, laddie. But if I tell you, you must swear not to discuss it with a soul. I would ken an enemy, but you couldna’. Do ya swear tae silence?”
Jerry nodded vigorously. “Oh, of course, Mr. Forsyth!
“Well, since you’re a Buchanan…”
“I wish I weren’t,” sighed Jerry, glancing at his rainbow kilt.
“There’s worse things, laddie. There were Buchanans at Agincourt and Flodden, mind ye remember. But you asked for a sign. Will you be going to the Hill-Sing tonight?”
Jerry tried to remember when that cocktail party was being held in the Hutchesons’ camper. Had he promised to be there, or just said that he might drop by? It didn’t matter-not compared to this. “Of course I’ll be there if you want me to,” he said.
“Right. Good lad. Now, at the singing, when they begin ‘Flower of Scotland,’ you stand up. And look around to
