Bruar's Rest

husband and I...’ Mention of him brought tears. She pulled a silk handkerchief from a black-sleeved velvet jacket with cuffs of leather, ‘we spent many happy times hunting deer in the north.’
    Here was a person who had been to her Scotland. She had seen and breathed the air of her moors. She was keen to walk in this woman’s company. ‘Yes, I’ll walk with you. Where in the north did you hunt?’ They began to stroll along, leading the horse by its bridle.
    The old woman, watching her with the lady, raised a hand in concern and called to her not to go away from the site.
    ‘I’m alright, don’t worry.’ Megan hoped that all the gypsies, who were silently watching her every move, would hear and know that, as far as Buckley was concerned, she’d make no mention of him.
    Ruth joined her and drew her back from the lady. ‘Tonight,’ she told her seriously, ‘no one goes to sleep. It’s our custom that everybody stays up the night before a funeral. I’ll wait up by the quarry lip till you and the good lady have finished walking.’
    Megan could see how worried Ruth and all the gypsies had become in case she mentioned Buckley.
    ‘Mrs Newton and I are talking about my Scotland, that’s all. I’ll see you later.’
    Soon the expanse of moorland stretched out before them, and late autumnal breezes spread amongst heather and rock. What was recently to her a place of wild beauty was now a desolate region of murder and whistling, haunting winds. She was glad she’d put on her coat.
    It was plain to see her companion was a mistress of horses. ‘Move on, pretty girl,’ she ordered the mare, taking off the halter. ‘I like to give her freedom now and again,’ she said, patting the horse’s flanks. Megan was astonished at how dutiful the tall horse was, as it circled and galloped, then fell in and walked behind her mistress.
    The pair chatted and discussed Scotland. ‘Although we hunted on friends’ estates, Glen Coe was my favourite place. I loved its seclusion, its mighty gliding eagles, the rugged beauty of the place left me breathless.’
    Megan could hardly contain her excitement. Not only was her companion a visitor to Scotland, but of all places she knew her very own birthplace—her ancestral home!
    ‘You’d not hunt the monarch of the glen there. It was forbidden. No one hunted in the Glen of Coe, maybe in the Rannoch or the Etive, but never the Coe.’
    ‘No, to be honest, we found the area far too dangerous with all those jagged peaks and sheer giants of mountains. It was hardly a safe place to stalk, but a wonderful place to dream. Look, those are the lights of Burnstall Hall, we’re nearing home.’
    Megan had seen plenty of stately homes, another one more or less meant little to her. Her heart was chasing the red deer back home. She was laid on her back staring up at the soaring eagle as it stretched its wings toward a powder-blue sky.
    The woman broke into her thoughts. ‘Please come in and have some tea before you go back.’
    ‘Thank you, madam, but the gypsies will be thinking I’m telling tales, so best I get away.’
    ‘I insist, it will only take a moment.’
    ‘Darkness is not a time to be upon the moor, any moor. I must say again, no thanks.’
    ‘Then Sam will walk you back, he has no fear of the moor.’ At that she called for the young stable boy who came instantly. He was quickly introduced, and said that of course he would take Megan back.
    Without a word she followed the lady inside, to be met by a rather stern housekeeper, who was obviously somewhat taken aback by a gypsy being allowed inside a stately house.
    ‘If looks could kill,’ was Megan’s first thought, noticing the housekeeper’s apparent disgust at being ordered to fetch some tea.
    ‘Surely Madam doesn’t expect the good china cups for this person, who, and if Madam doesn’t mind me saying, should be in the kitchen?’
    ‘Mrs Simms bring us a tray with—yes, china cups, cream and sugar. Now, if you don’t mind, I wish to discuss some matters of importance with this young woman.’
    Still the hard-faced servant, with her grey hair stretched across her head and tied tightly in a small bun, just had to have her say. ‘Madam, we in this house are in deep mourning. It is understandable you wish to find out who took the master’s life, but not by giving hospitality to a filthy gypsy.’
    Her employer stood up, stiffened her spine and ordered Mrs Simms to cease her offensive remarks.
    Mrs Simms