“Yes, he’s Colonel Harry Chattan. And they are not all bad, Robbie,” Mrs. Macdonald said. “There is a good line of them.”
“Aye, the Scottish ones. Fought alongside us in ’45. But he’s of English line. Traitors all,” Robbie said, spitting in actuality this time, aiming for the hearth. Portia was surprised Mrs. Macdonald didn’t want his hide for spitting in her clean house.
The rain threatening all morning finally came.The sound of it made this meeting in the sitting room more intimate, and slightly more sinister.
“What would an English Chattan be doing in Glenfinnan?” Portia asked.
“He’switchhunting,” Mrs. Macdonald said.
For a second, Portia wasn’t certain she’d heard her correctly. She almost laughed until she realized the Scots were serious.
Robbie had taken a seat on a footstool close to Portia’s chair. He placed a knowing finger against the side of his nose. “And well he should.”
“Has he found any?” Portia had to ask, expecting the answer to be no. There was no such thing as a witch.
“We steered him to Crazy Lizzy, but he wasn’t satisfied,” Mrs. Macdonald answered.
“Lizzy is not a witch,” Portia said. “Granted she’s not all there, either.” Crazy Lizzy was an old woman who lived in a hut in the woods. She spent the day talking to herself but she was harmless. Portia tried to take a food basket to her at least once a week, and she wasn’t the only one. Mrs. Macdonald was known to send loaves of bread to the poor soul.
“I know that,” Mrs. Macdonald said, “but the man was offering three hundred pounds sterling. I thought it worth the effort.”
Portia almost fell from the chair. “Three hundredpounds.” With three hundred pounds, the rent would be paid and they wouldn’t have to worry about money for years. No more worries, no more debtors, no more struggle.
“Why is he looking for a witch?” Portia asked.
“Because he is cursed,” Robbie answered, sitting back on the stool and crossing both arms and legs.
“Cursed?” This time Portia did laugh. Neither Robbie nor Mrs. Macdonald joined her.
“You can make light of it, Miss Maclean, but be certain the English Chattans don’t. ’Tis all Charles Chattan’s fault. He handfasted himself to a Scottish lass but betrayed her love when he and his kin went running to England to marry him to an English heiress.”
“When did this happen?” Portia asked.
“Hundreds of years ago,” Robbie answered.
“Then why does it matter?”
Robbie stared at her as if she was a fool. “It has never stopped mattering,” he said. “The Scottish lass took her own life. Everyone knows the story.”
Mrs. Macdonald nodded agreement.
“I don’t know it,” Portia said.
A gleam came to Robbie’s eyes. He had the Highlanders’ love of a good tale. He uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her. “The Scottishlass’s love was true and when Chattan betrayed her, she threw herself from a tower.”
“Aye, sad thing it was, the poor little dear,” Mrs. Macdonald said.
“Did this happen here?” Portia asked.
“No one is certain,” Robbie answered. “The lass was known as Rose of the Macnachtan, and a bonny lass she was. They say she was the most lovely flower in Scotland and had a gift.”
Portia frowned. “A gift?”
“For the sight,” Robbie answered. “For things that we mere mortals cannot imagine. Her mother was a witch and a powerful one, they say. She had her daughter’s beautiful body burned on a shore of a loch and she stood on a rock overlooking the funeral pyre. On that rock, she cursed the English Chattans before she leaped from that rock onto her daughter’s own burning body.”
No image could be more horrifying to Portia’s always active imagination. The room had seemed to darken. The flames in the hearth leaped and danced as if saying,Yes, it is so.
“How are they cursed?” Portia asked Robbie.
