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  “As the brothers dragged Catherine away, Patrick called after her that he would see her again. But a few weeks later the Jacobite uprising of 1715 swept the country. It led to a battle on this very moor, as you know. Catherine was desperate to see Patrick one last time, but she was locked in the house. The Mortons, of course, supported the opposing side. They helped billet some of Argyll’s officers, supplying them with food and hay for their horses.

  “Patrick made up his mind to fight alongside the Highlanders on 13th November, wearing his Jacobite tartan. Catherine watched the battle from an upstairs window, including the slaughter of the Highlanders. Her own Patrick died in the fighting. The silver ring you mention has its own story to tell, for when the brothers separated the pair of lovers, one of them then withdrew the silver ring from her finger and threw it down in the mud. Patrick retrieved it and carried it with him into the field of battle – for luck, although it brought him none.”

  A silence fell in the small dark kitchen, over the three silent figures at the table.

  “The story goes that a servant who was sympathetic to the pair searched for Patrick’s body among the dead, and brought back his dagger and a piece of his tartan. He also found the ring which Patrick had tried unsuccessfully to bury as he lay wounded and dying on the battlefield. It lay beside his outstretched fingers, and the servant saw it shining in the dirt. The dagger was returned to Patrick’s mother and kept in the family. The ring and the piece of tartan were delivered into Catherine’s hands, together with the information that he had died a brave and courageous death.” Mr MacFarlane sighed and looked into the shadows before continuing with his story. “She grieved for another two months, through a long and terrible winter, and then, on 13th January 1716, exactly two months to the day after the Battle of Sheriffmuir, she died giving birth to a premature boy. The baby was stillborn.”

  Fiona and Samuel sat without moving, in stunned silence, horrified.

  But Mr MacFarlane had not quite finished his tale. “It was sometimes said that Catherine died cursing the male line of her family, swearing she’d make sure her father and brothers would be punished for what they’d done to her. She died full of bitterness and anger.”

  There was a short silence, as they sat thinking sadly of the unhappy pair.

  “There were three sons living on Lynns Farm at that time. I am descended from Patrick’s brother, the only one to survive the battle. He inherited the farm from his mother, married, had children and died in his bed at the age of eighty. He told the story of his brother’s doomed love to his own children, and made sure it was passed down through the generations, as a warning against having anything to do with a Morton. That’s how I know.”

  Mr MacFarlane sat looking at the two children, who were shocked into silence, and he felt a little sorry for them. “So you’d never heard tell of any of this up at Dunadd? It’s a well-known story hereabouts.”

  “My parents never said anything about it!”

  He nodded. “Perhaps they were trying to protect you. It’s a tragic tale for young ears to hear, right enough,” he said in a low voice. “Ach, I’m sorry you had to hear it.”

  Fiona shook her head. “No. No, it’s best we did. Perhaps we can make amends, like you said, help put her ghost to rest by resolving the sufferings of the past.”

  Mr MacFarlane looked at her kindly and said “The past is never resolved, my dear. It just is.”

  “But ghosts can be laid to rest,” Samuel insisted.

  “Drink up yer tea, son,” the old man said sadly, “before it gets cauld.”

  Before they left, Fiona wanted to ask one last thing. “Why does my mother not speak to you, Mr MacFarlane?”

  He looked at her and his eyes twinkled. “Apart from the past, you mean? Aye, well … various reasons.”

  He sighed, and shifted in his chair. “The main one being, I didn’t want the story of Catherine Morton to be forgotten. I thought she deserved to be remembered. A historian once came sniffing around here after local ghost stories. A nice woman, she was. Wanted to include the particulars in an archive in the Museum of Scotland. Thought it would make interesting reading for later generations.”

  The children listened, wide-eyed. “So I told her exactly what I’ve just told you, and she kept a record of it. It’s there in the museum archives apparently, if anyone wants to see.” He lowered his gaze then. “Your mother didn’t agree. She didn’t want people to think that Dunadd has a ghost. She wanted to let sleeping dogs lie, and for the memory of Catherine Morton to fade.”

  “Why?” Fiona said, staring at him intently.

  The old man tried to avoid her eye. “Well now, a mother will always try to protect her young, will she not?”

  Fiona still looked perplexed. Mr MacFarlane turned solemn for a moment.

  “How do you think it would make Charles and Sebastian feel, if they knew about the story of the curse?” he said gently. “Would they still lead happy lives afterwards, do you think?”

  Fiona sat still, while the significance of his words sank in. Then she stood up abruptly. “It’s just a story,” she murmured. “No one can prove it.”

  Mr MacFarlane drank his tea thoughtfully, and said nothing more.

  Face at the Window

  As they walked away from the farm, Samuel cast sidelong glances in Fiona’s direction. She walked with her head down, trying to digest what Mr MacFarlane had told them. He knew she was having trouble accepting what they’d just heard.

  Samuel felt frustrated. They had solved the mystery of who their weeping woman was. She and the twelve-year-old Catherine Morton of the journal were one and the same, as they had always suspected, but they were no nearer to ridding Dunadd of her sad presence.

  “Look, Samuel, let’s just face it,” Fiona snapped. “She’s not going to go away.” As they neared the waterfall they could hear the rush of the water tumbling beneath the snow and ice. Samuel was about to make a sharp retort, but thought better of it. He knew she was upset, and he could understand that. If he’d just found out that a curse had been placed on his family, he probably wouldn’t have been particularly pleased about it either.

  “Maybe we just have to learn to live with her,” Fiona added wistfully. “Perhaps she’ll always be part of Dunadd.”

  “In one sense, yes,” he murmured, “but I still think we could help her in some way.”

  “I can’t believe my mum never said anything about this. She knew all along, and didn’t say a word.”

  Samuel was quiet. All they could hear was the sound of the Wharry Burn. “You can’t blame her really!”

  “What?” Fiona glared at him.

  “Maybe she’s worried.”

  Fiona looked blank. “Oh come on, Fiona. You heard what Mr MacFarlane said, about the curse she put on your family?”

  She shook her head. “That’s just a story. Mr MacFarlane said so himself. Just because she died an angry woman, that doesn’t mean to say it has any effect on us now. Anyway, it’s not even true. Not all of the men in my family died young.” She hesitated, looking disturbed. “They couldn’t have, otherwise the Mortons would have died out long ago. It’s just a stupid story.” She was getting angry now.

  “Yes, but what about your father?”

  “What about him?” Fiona’s mood darkened.

  “He died young, didn’t he? Before his time?”

  “It’s just a coincidence,” Fiona said in a small frightened voice.

  Samuel paused for a moment. “What if it isn’t?” he whispered.

  Neither of them wanted to think about the consequences of that. Overhead, a solitary bird let out a desolate cry. They walked on, their heads bent low.

  “Poor Catherine Morton.” Fiona shuddered. “She was the youngest of three children, with two older brothers.” There was a pause. “Just like me.” Fiona and Samuel looked at one another.

  “Do you ever have the feeling,” Samuel murmured, “that history is repeating itself? That we’re acting out somethin
g that has already happened before?”

  “How do you mean?” Fiona said in a low voice, although she already knew what he meant.

  “Nothing. It’s just that … it’s almost like we’re all being programmed to re-enact stuff from the past. Me, you, Charles and Sebastian. They dragged you away and locked you in the summer house, just like the Morton brothers of long ago … it’s almost like we can’t help ourselves.”

  “And that’s why Charles and Seb are behaving the way they are, you mean? That it’s part of this …” she struggled with the word, “curse thing.”

  Samuel shrugged. “It’s a possibility.” There was silence for a minute, as they made their way up hill towards the white tower of Dunadd in the distance, with its long ranks of gleaming windows. There was a low mist coming down over the trees of Dunadd again, closing the place in. Patches of mist caught between the branches, and drifted close to the windows. “She died a bitter and angry woman, that’s what he said. You can almost feel it in the air. I wonder where she’s buried?”

  Fiona shrugged. “With the rest of the Mortons I suppose.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “In the cemetery, down in the village. We have our own private chapel there and a family vault.”

  Samuel lifted his head and surveyed the scene before him. “Maybe she’s not with the rest of the family. Maybe she’s here at Dunadd, the only Morton to be buried on Sheriffmuir.”

  “Why would she be?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just an idea.”

  “So what are we going to do? Start digging?” she asked sarcastically.

  “We could ask Mr MacFarlane. Maybe he would know. I’d like to see him again, anyway.”

  That afternoon Samuel stroked the dark ebony box on his desk under the window. Its surface was so intricately carved that it was knobbly to touch.

  He opened it, took out the leather bag and examined the silver ring and the piece of tartan by the light of the window. The ring shone, barely tarnished at all despite its great age. As Mr MacFarlane said, if it could speak, it would have its own story to tell. It had gone with Patrick into the field of battle, and lay, half-covered with dirt, as the wounded lay dying all around him. Then it had been found and restored to Catherine, who had died and left her treasures locked up in a precious box. Who had thought to keep them safe all these years? Who had placed the things in the box, and then placed the box safely away in the library, to be forgotten and to acquire layers of dust until years later? Was it Catherine’s mother, the mother one never hears anything about, who lived in the shadow of a domineering husband and her equally domineering sons? Who knew?

  Samuel lay the leaf-brown pages of the journal on his desk, and read the faded handwriting. Her words came at him out of the past.

  My brothers are not the most patient and mild-mannered of people, but I know how to handle them …

  For my birthday I was given this booke, a leather-bound volume. Mother taught me to read and write, and she considers it will be good for me to keepe a journal …

  Father is … well, Father is Father.

  I respect him, but I keepe my distance. I’m learning to blend in to my surroundings.

  I’m free when I’m up on the muir. As wild as my brothers. As long as Father sees naught.

  Mrs Fletcher says that Mother has new-fangled ideas in teaching a wee slip of a lass to read and write, and that my father would strongly disapprove if he knew. So I make as if not to draw attention to myself and pretend ignorance as necesserie. Tis better this way.

  And then he read about her friendship with Patrick.

  He listens to me as if I have something important to say. (At home I am mostly ignored, and ridiculed by my brothers if I dare to offer an opinion).

  A twelve-year-old girl learning to cope in a household full of domineering men, trying to keep her head down, suppress her own intelligence. And a mother, Lady Cecilia, who no doubt lived to regret the way her daughter was treated. A story was beginning to emerge. A very personal story, with not one but two sad women at its centre, Catherine Morton and her mother, Lady Cecilia. Catherine was a girl who had dared to defy the rules of the world in which she lived. And she had paid a terrible price. Her brothers had thought of her as a witch at times, and she had been happy for them to think that.

  After Catherine’s death, someone had kept these precious objects safe, the ring and the piece of tartan, and the ebony box she had treasured so. These things were tokens of the couple’s love for one another. It occurred to Samuel then that maybe they could eradicate the curse after all. They could use these things in any ceremony they might perform, as a way of burying the two together, or trying, at least, to put them to rest.

  He thought about Catherine’s mother, Lady Cecilia. Had she grieved secretly for her lost daughter, lost in so many ways? Perhaps she too had paced the upstairs rooms, weeping long after her daughter’s death, blaming herself for what happened to her daughter.

  He thought about the two lost souls, Catherine Morton and Patrick MacFarlane, who had befriended one another despite their differences. He thought of her pacing the corridors and weeping as the battle raged on the fields below; how she had watched the terrible slaughter, both sides devastated in the attack. A battle with no victors. Then he thought of the baby, born too early to survive, and how Catherine’s suffering had been inflicted by her own father and brothers. He gently gathered together the papers from the journal, and replaced them in the ebony box. He was determined to help her to rest in peace.

  On a sudden impulse Samuel went outside and made his way to the front of Dunadd. He looked up at the big windows of the drawing room. He wasn’t expecting to see anything particularly, but there she was. A figure at the window, a white face looking down at him, a sad face framed by dark hair. She wore a long navy-blue plaid gown, and now that he could see her more clearly, he realized that she did look younger than he had first thought. Bitterness had aged her prematurely perhaps in those weeks before her death. He gazed upwards. There seemed to be a knowing look on her face, as if she knew that he was standing out there on the lawn, and what he was thinking.

  She fixed him with her dark eyes, nodded, and then turned away.

  A Small, Silver Dagger

  Fiona sat alone in front of the drawing room fire, brooding. Mr Hughes had stacked the huge hearth with logs, and all she had to do was put a match to it. The flames danced on the hearth rug.

  When Chris Morton walked in, she found her daughter sitting there, quite motionless in the shadows.

  “No lights on?” she asked and bent to switch on a lamp or two. At once the objects in the room sprang into sharp relief, and the darkness shrank back into the corners.

  Fiona looked at her mother angrily.

  “We went to Mr MacFarlane’s house today,” she began.

  Mrs Morton straightened up. “Why did you do that?”

  But Fiona didn’t let her finish. “He told us about the weeping woman, about Catherine Morton and what happened to her.”

  Her mother fell silent. No longer bustling about and bossing her daughter, she was at a loss for words.

  “Did you know about this story?” Fiona demanded.

  Mrs Morton hesitated, then sighed.

  “Of course I knew about it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I didn’t want to frighten you.”

  “Charles and Seb … do they know?”

  Chris Morton shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  Then she sat down in a chair, her shoulders slumped.

  “I’m sick of that old man interfering. He has no right … It’s all very well for him to repeat it verbatim as if it’s some piece of interesting local history … It might be just a story to him, but to us it’s more than that. I just want people to forget … and then maybe it will be all right again.”

  Fiona watched her mother sadly. “It will be all right, Mum,” she murmured, more gently than she intended, and Chris Morton lo
oked at her daughter in surprise.

  Upstairs in their tower rooms, Charles and Sebastian waited like everyone else for the big freeze to be over, and for a thaw to set in. It was as if Sheriffmuir lay under a spell of some kind. Charles sat at his computer, his eyes dark with thoughts he couldn’t put a name to.

  He was reaching a difficult age, Mrs Morton speculated, trying to reassure herself, but the truth was, he hadn’t seemed like himself lately. He was moody and stubborn, “off colour” as Granny Hughes politely put it. But it was more than that. He was always sullen, preoccupied. Something was on his mind. He watched Samuel and his sister darkly, as if they were his sworn enemies. It was as if he couldn’t help himself. His mother was beginning to suspect that she had been right after all, that this was not a healthy atmosphere for them to grow up in. She had tried to tell herself that it was, but the memory of that night when her husband died was always coming back to her – the scream she heard in the library, and then finding him stretched out on the floor like that. And the shadow she’d seen slip from the room out the corner of her eye. And the letter she’d found on the desk, a letter her husband had only just finished writing. She’d wanted to destroy it, but hadn’t felt able to in the end, so she had buried it in one of the drawers, amongst all the loose bits of paper that she never had the time or energy to sort out, trying to pretend it didn’t exist. It was so much easier to keep things as they were, to refuse to change anything.

  Perhaps she should get rid of the place, after all, simply sell up and start anew elsewhere. But the thought of all those years of history – family history, her husband’s family – stopped her from making that decision. She couldn’t abandon all of that. It was part of her children’s heritage, what made them who they were, despite the sorrows. She couldn’t let a gruesome ghost story from long ago ruin what they had today. Besides, the children loved it here, and so did she, despite the atmosphere with its occasional sinister overtones. And now that the Cunninghams had come to live at the cottage, there was company nearby. Only things were not turning out quite as she had planned. Charles and Sebastian were not getting on with Samuel as well as she had hoped. Perhaps she should have a word with Isabel about it, although that might only cause more awkwardness. In her experience children simply had to be left to get on with it, make their own decisions about friendships. You couldn’t force it.