‘Is that Rory’s brooch? I thought you left it with Ailsa’s brooch on her tomb?’
Flora fingered its familiar surface again. ‘I did. But we opened the tomb yesterday to prepare Ailsa and I...well, I pinned her own brooch to her shroud but...but...’
Sympathy and understanding shimmered in Joane’s large grey eyes. ‘You wanted to take care of it for Rory?’
‘Yes. And, if I’m honest, I wanted to wear it one last time. I will pin it to his shroud before the new tomb is closed. But...last night...’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t explain it. I could have pinned it on him last night, but it feels almost as though that should be the final act. When they are back together.’
Joane smiled. ‘And that will be very soon.’
Lachlan, Benneit, Father and Donald, each holding one corner of a wooden board upon which Ailsa lay, now entered the inner bailey. Emotion constricted Flora’s throat as she and Joane walked side by side to wait by the chapel door, ready to follow Ailsa inside.
‘I am so pleased,’ Joane said in a whisper, ‘that we could all agree not to involve Pastor Collins in this. It feels right, somehow, to keep this informal and private.’
‘I agree. It does feel right.’
Flora had dreaded their officious local pastor taking charge of what, to her, felt intensely personal. As it was, both Father and Benneit would speak a few words before Rory and Ailsa were covered and left in peace, together for eternity.
The chapel interior was dim and cool, lit by flickering torches set into old-fashioned wall sconces. A pair of trestles had been set ready for Ailsa and, for the first time, they could allsee the couple side by side—Rory had been a big man, tall and broad, whereas Ailsa had been petite. A little like both Lachlan and Flora and Benneit and Joane, Flora realised. That observation made the couple feel even more real to her and she only half-listened as first Father, then Benneit, spoke of reuniting the couple and of laying them to rest.
Her memories were again in the past and she relived that swell of anguish and pain she had experienced when she first ventured into the crypt under the old chapel.
Always—the whisper had seemed to come from both within her and without, at the same time.
She blocked the men’s voices, holding her conscious thoughts at bay...listening, seeking...
She heard nothing. But she felt...contentment. Peace. Deep and satisfying.
And she relaxed.
It was time.
Father and Benneit lifted Rory and placed him in the waiting tomb. Lachlan and Donald moved Ailsa. Flora stepped forward, fumbling to unpin Rory’s brooch from her shawl. She stared down at the two shrouded bodies, lying side by side in the double tomb. Flora pressed her lips to the brooch, blessing the comfort it—and Rory—hadafforded her over the years, then she bent over to fasten it to Rory’s linen shroud. As ever, the stiff catch made it tricky to fasten, but she managed and then straightened with a sigh, placing her hand to the small of her back. Lachlan’s arm slipped round her waist, supporting her.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. It was merely the discomfort of stooping.’
The stone lid waited to be lifted in place. To cover Rory and Ailsa. The four men positioned themselves at each corner and bent to grasp it.
‘Wait!’
They paused. Flora smiled self-consciously. ‘Just one moment...one last thing...’ She reached out one hand and placed it on Ailsa’s brooch, pinned in the position of her heart. A gentle pat of reassurance? A farewell? And then she did the same for Rory, quickly, before stepping back and allowing the men to heave the stone lid into the air and settle it gently over the tomb. Flora read the carved inscription through blurred vision.
Here lie Rory Lochmore,
Chief of the Lochmore Clan,
and his lady, Ailsa.
Rest in Peace.
Rory and Ailsa—together again. Always.
There were no effigies on this tomb lid, but merely carvings depicting the two brooches. Flora blinked back her tears, for it made no sense to mourn two people who were long dead. They were happy tears, she decided, as she fetched the bundle of greenery she had deposited in the chapel earlier that morning—rosemary, for remembrance, and heather, the scent of home—and placed it on the tomb.
And, come the spring, she would bring thrift, for as long as it bloomed along the Lochmore cliffs.
That evening, after their guests had departed, Flora and Lachlan strolled arm in arm around the castle grounds as was their custom whenever the weather permitted. Tonight, Flora’s head was full of Rory and Ailsa, hoping they were content now they were together again. She gazed up at the night sky above them, at the myriad stars that spangled the heavens, and she prayed that Rory and Ailsa were up there, somewhere, together. She prayed that their love truly was—as she believed—eternal.
