Although interminably cold, the West Highland scenery took my breath away. The mountain, Ben Nevis, was unmistakable; snow-capped and appeared wild and romantic in the distance. I had not been in this area since that fateful autumn I spent in the arms of Lord Ardmillan’s only son, and my fondness for the area was renewed by nostalgia. The thought of seeing Euan again after all these years made my heart palpitate. My feelings for him had been so all-encompassing in my youth that I was willing to risk my immortal soul to continue our illicit trysts. But God had intervened and our affair was not to be. On our return to Edinburgh University Euan’s behavior towards me changed, and then his eye fell on another boy, and another. Euan later married the daughter of a Duke, and fulfilled his duty, fathering twin sons, but from the talk I overheard at my club, the match was not a happy one. Even though, publicly, Euan remained Lord Ardmillan’s doting son, when he did venture into town with his set, the rumor was that he debauched himself in ways that meant a speedy retreat from society always followed to save the family reputation.
Euan Ardmillan had just made his fiftieth year and as I had not set eyes on him for what felt like a lifetime, I wondered if, like me, he was perpetually lonely, fearful and felt the years of regret crowding him.
More than an hour after we stepped onto the coach we neared Ardgour, where the Glenlair Estate stretched out over forty-thousand acres of wild Scots landscape. As the carriage passed through imposing wrought iron gates and started up the steep hilly roadway to Dunecht Hall I stared out of the window. The road was lined with ancient Scots pine trees. The snow was beginning to fall thick and fast at once shrouding the winter sun, and turning day into night. The hardy Clydesdale horses seemed well-used to the weather and did not slow their pace.
When we arrived at the hall the blizzard surrounded us on all sides, shrouding what should have been a stunning view of the Loch and the Bens. All I could see was the front porch and a withered elderly lady at the door. The housekeeper, Mrs. McKelvie, was so thin and frail I worried a gust of wind might blow her away. She stood beside tall carved timber double doors, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a knitted hat placed at a jaunty angle on her head.
“Come away in sir’s, quick as ye can. We don’t want te let the heat out!” The Scotswoman cajoled in a stern, almost matronly way. Young stable hands appeared, first to assist the carriage driver to remove our trunks from the roof of the carriage, and then to tend to the horses.
I gingerly stepped out of the carriage, hoping I would not slip on the icy ground. I made it into the hall and greeted Mrs. McKelvie, for I knew her from my last visit. I was surprised that she remembered me; I was surprised also by the sparkle of fondness in her milky pale eyes.
“Ah, welcome back sir.” She cooed and her gnarly hands gripped my cheeks and she held my face as if I were a child. I was appalled that she had touched me without permission.
“Lemmie get a look at ye, son. Mah old eyes aren’t as good as they use-te be!”
I permitted the peculiar, almost motherly intimacy because I could not rightly refuse it.
“Yer lookin’ well Mr. Hannan, but yer freezing. I’ve set a big fire, go warm yersel.” Mrs. McKelvie ordered.
I had mixed feelings about returning to Dunecht Hall. My memories of the month I had spent here during the shooting season were of myself as a young man so lost in the rugged Scottish wilderness and overcome by desire for Euan that he did not care about the future. I recalled that it had felt like I’d stepped out of time and societal rules did not matter. I did not recognize myself as one who would become so besotted and reckless as to lose myself completely to sin, but as Euan Ardmillan matched my desires we did lose ourselves. We found we had plenty of time alone to indulge when the other guests hiked up into the hills to hunt pheasant and grouse.
I shuddered from my memories and found I was in the Great Hall, standing in front of the enormous white stone fireplace stacked with burning logs. The heat it sent out was intense and much needed to fill such a vast room with a high vaulted ceiling. The three men with whom I had traveled were gone, and I was alone.
I removed my hat, and my leather gloves, and laid them on a side table, and then I unbuttoned and shrugged out of my heavy greatcoat. I turned and laid it over a chair, then noted my surroundings. This was still a house of mourning and it felt somewhat like a mausoleum. I had left my townhouse where garlands, holly wreaths, and ribbons decorated my home for the seasonal celebrations in three days' time when my sister Gracie and her family would visit, and I had come to a house where there would be no Christmas at all. It felt peculiar.
I glanced at the items displayed in cabinets and on the walls in the Great Hall. They told the story of Lord Ardmillan’s life, his military career and the deaths of many—man and beast. The hall was filled to the brim with antiquities and treasures from the dead Lord’s travels—ceramics, tapestries, paintings, and ornaments,
