So it was that the next morning they set out in the company of a grizzled man by the name of MacIan, with a strong Highland pony each to ride, and three more to follow with luggage, water, and food.
“Keep close!” MacIan warned, fixing them in turn with a skeptical eye. “I’ll no have time to be nursemaiding ye, so if ye’re in trouble, call out, don’t just sit there and hope I’ll be noticing, ’cause I won’t. I’ve my work to keep these ponies on the track, not to speak of finding it mysel’, if the weather turns.” He cocked his head to one side and looked up at the wild sky with clouds racing across it casting the hills in brilliant light one moment, then shrouded in purple, and then black the next. The water in the loch was white-ruffled. The wind was laden with salt and the sharp smell of weed. It was ice-cold on the skin, whipping the blood up.
Isobel looked at Vespasia. For once they understood each other perfectly. Pride kept them from turning back. “Of course,” they both agreed, and when MacIan was satisfied that they meant it, they set out of the village on the rough road through ever-steepening mountains toward the great Glen of the most treacherous massacre in the history of Scotland. In the winter of 1692 the Campbell guests had risen in the night and slain their MacDonald hosts—man, woman, and child—all in the cause of loyalty to the Hanoverian king from the south.
They rode in silence, because no conversation was possible. The wind tore their breath away, even if the labor of riding in single file along the track and the grandeur of the scenery had not robbed them of the wish to frame words for it.
At about one o’clock they stopped for something to eat, but primarily to rest the ponies. They were slightly sheltered by a buttress of rock, and Vespasia leaned against it and stared around her. On every side jagged mountains soared into the sky. Some were dark with heather on the lower slopes, the peaks like white teeth in the giant, upturned skull of some vast creature left behind from the beginning of time. The smell of the snow whetted the edge of the wind. It was a land of golden eagles and red deer, pools of peat-dark water, avalanches, and blizzards. There was a majesty, a terror, and a beauty that burned itself into the soul.
They remounted and set off again, climbing higher as the valley rose and the sides became steeper yet. Darkness fell early, and they stopped at a small hut, almost invisible in the dusk, amid the rock outcrops. It offered little hospitality beyond shelter from the elements, both for them and for the ponies. Vespasia was glad of that. She would not have left any creature out in the storm that was threatening, let alone beasts upon whom their lives might depend.
“Mrs. Naylor must be a raving madwoman,” Isobel said grimly, settling down to sleep in her clothes. The only concession to comfort was to take the pins out of her hair. “And I’m beginning to think we are, too.”
Vespasia was obliged to agree with her. The longer this journey continued, the more concerned she became as to what manner of woman Mrs. Naylor might be, and increasingly now, what had been the truth of the marriage between Gwendolen and Kilmuir, and exactly how he had died. Why had Gwendolen never spoken of her mother? What was the reason for what looked unmistakably like an estrangement?
Neither of them slept well. It was too cold and the wooden bunks were hard. It was a relief when daylight came and they could rise, eat a breakfast of oatmeal and salt, and drink hot tea, without milk, then continue on their way.
Outside was a staggering world. It had snowed during the night and the sky had cleared. The light was blinding. Sun glittered on ribbons of water cascading down the rock faces, hitting stones and leaping up, foaming white. An eagle drifted on the wind, a black speck against the blue.
They rode all day, resting only briefly for the ponies’ sake. Vespasia was so tired from the unaccustomed exercise that every bone and muscle in her body ached, and she knew Isobel must feel the same, but neither of them would admit it. It was not that they imagined they were deceiving anyone, least of all MacIan; it was simply a matter of self-mastery. One complaint or admission would lead to another, and then perhaps thoughts of surrender. Once suggested, it would become a possibility, and that must not be permitted. The temptation was too powerful. Instead they concentrated on a few yards at a time, from here to the next turn in the track, the next stretch ahead.
Then just before dusk, as the sun was setting in shards of fire almost due south, the valley opened out and the great width of Rannoch Moor lay in front of them, dark-patched with heather and peat bogs, pools shining bronze in the dying light. In the distance of the sky, turquoise drifted into palest blue before the advancing shades of the night.
No one spoke, but Vespasia wondered if perhaps Mrs. Naylor were not so mad after all. This was a different kind of sanity, undreamed of in London.
They found shelter again, but it was bitterly cold, and by morning the aches that had been slight the previous day were now sharper and reminded them of pain with every movement. It required all the concentration Vespasia could muster just to stay on her pony and watch where she was going. Her head ached from clenching her teeth, and she was stiff with cold. Not to complain had become a matter of honor, almost a reason for survival.
Clouds appeared on the horizon, billowing, burning with light, as if there had been an explosion just beyond their vision. Then hard on their heels came the squall, driving rain turning to sleet, pellets of ice that stung the skin. They bent into it, heads down, and kept going. There was nothing to break the strength of it, nothing to hide behind. They moved carefully, one step at a time.
It cleared again just as suddenly, and they were able to increase speed.
“We need to be in Glen Orchy by night,” MacIan said grimly. “There’s no place to rest before then, and the Orchy’s no river to be stopping near, if ye’ve no house nor bothy to protect you.”
Vespasia did not bother to ask why not; her imagination supplied a dozen answers. She was beginning to feel as if whatever Mrs. Naylor was like, it was going to be a blessed relief to find her and discharge their duty. It could hardly be worse than this. It had assumed nightmare properties. Perhaps the Vikings were right and hell was endless cold, a howling wind, a journey that never arrived anywhere, aching bones and muscles, and always the need to press onward.
Except surely hell could never be so soul-rendingly beautiful?
She saw Isobel sway in the saddle ahead of her, and more than once she was afraid she would fall herself, but by dusk they saw lights ahead of them. It seemed another endless, excruciating hour before they reached them and found them to be the windows of a large house, far greater in size than that for a single family.
Someone must have seen them come, because the door opened wide as their ponies’ hooves clattered in the yard, and a large man with a storm-weathered face stood holding a lantern high.
“Well, MacIan, is it you, then? And what are you doing out on a night like this? Who is it you have with you? Ladies, is it? Well, come on inside then. I’ll send Andrew and Willie out to tend to your ponies.”
“Aye, Finn, it’s a dreich night now,” MacIan agreed cheerfully, climbing out of the saddle in an easy movement and turning back to help first Isobel and then Vespasia to the ground. Vespasia was horrified to discover she could barely stand up, and but for MacIan’s hand, she would have staggered and lost her balance.
The door was held wide, and two young men passed her, nodding shyly on their way to tend to the animals. Inside was blessedly warm. She was dizzy with relief. It was not until she had taken off her wet outer clothes and dried her face on the clean, rough towel handed her that she turned to see the woman standing in the doorway and regarding her with interest. She was tall, easily as tall as Vespasia, with auburn hair wound carelessly on her head, simply as had been convenient. She wore rough wool clothes, quite obviously designed for warmth and convenience of movement. Her face was wide-eyed, intelligent, handsome in a unique and highly individual way. Before she spoke, Vespasia knew that this was Mrs. Naylor.
She turned to Isobel, who seemed frozen, as if now that the moment had come, she could not find the courage. Crossing the moor had cost all she had.
Vespasia stepped forward. “Mrs. Naylor? My name is Vespasia Cumming-Gould.” She indicated Isobel. “My friend Isobel Alvie. I apologize for arriving without permission at this hour. We had not realized quite what traveling from Inverness would involve.”
“Beatrice Naylor,” the woman answered, a definite smile on her lips. “No one does, the first time. But it is an experience that remains indelibly in the mind. What brings you to the Orchy, in December? It has to be of the utmost importance.”
Vespasia turned to Isobel. They had already set foot through the door. Could they accept this woman’s hospitality, even on a night like this, at the end of the earth, by answering her question with a lie?
