Chapter One Fenwick, Ayrshire County, Scotland, 1832 Mr. Abernathy often lauded the courage of the clans in the Battle of Culloden Moor. So Callandra''s answer -- that the clans were outnumbered and should have retreated -- was not what he wanted to hear. "If you would pay more attention to history and less to your appearance, you wouldn''t make such foolish mistakes," he bellowed. "Take off that beret. French affectations have no place in Scottish education." With the full attention of her classmates, Callandra removed the beret. Hair that had been held in check cascaded from captivity.
Mr. Abernathy ordered her to write twenty times on the blackboard: I will not wear a beret to class. As he resumed teaching, she went to the board and performed her penance, a sense of injustice building inside her. When she reached the last line, she wrote: I will wear what I like to class! A couple of students noticed and suppressed giggles. She quickly erased the final sentence and was writing in the correct one just as Mr. Abernathy turned to check. She took her seat, savouring her moment of defiance. * Walking home that afternoon, with three of her younger siblings, she enjoyed the feeling of loose hair in the pleasant May weather.
The ash trees along the lane had freshly sprouted leaves, and the air was crisp with spring. Callandra and her siblings were nearly home when Alex McLeod caught up with them. Alex was sixteen, just a few months older than Callandra. He lived down the road, and their families had always known each other. "I like what you wrote on the board," he said. She smiled and kept walking. Her eight-year-old brother Duncan asked Alex for a piggyback ride. He obliged and soon all three children were laughing and climbing onto his back.
"You going to the Stewarton Fair on Saturday?" Alex asked Callandra, when the children had run off in pursuit of a rabbit. "I don''t know. Depends if we get the seeding done." "Well, if you need a ride, we''ll have space in the wagon," he said, sounding casual about his brash suggestion. Callandra''s siblings returned and began a competition over who could walk the straightest line, leaving Callandra''s gentle "thank you" lost in the clatter of voices. "I''ve never seen so many perfectly straight lines," said Alex, responding to requests that he select a winner. "I think the only way to resolve this is to do it again -- backward." The backward-walking began, with all the contestants soon declaring victory and returning to Alex''s back.
He let them climb up and then charged ahead, as if into battle. Callandra caught up to them at the top of a hillock. From there, they could see her family''s modest farm tucked behind a cluster of trees, nestled among gently rolling hills and fields of rich, dark earth. Their wagon was in the lane, and today two others were parked behind it. Alex was out of breath. "That''s enough," said Callandra, curtailing further demands from her siblings. "One more contest!" said Alex, an eye on Callandra. "Whoever builds the best castle in the sandpile .
gets to go to the Stewarton Fair!" "Oh! What if my parents say no? Look at the trouble you''ve got me in!" They stopped by the majestic oak tree in front of her house, as her siblings headed toward the sandpile near the barn. "See you tomorrow." A few paces away, he turned and said: "Oh, I almost forgot. You left this in the classroom." He pulled her beret from his pocket and tossed it gently in the air, aiming it to land on her head; it did, with the help of her hand. He walked closer and gently altered its angle. Her heart raced. He kept adjusting the beret, shifting it slightly from one side to another, as if each position pleased him more than the one before.
He moved a strand of hair this way and that, then tucked another behind her ear, leaving his hands gently cupping the back of her head. "You should wear the beret to class again -- if only to torment old Abernathy." "Really?" "Yeah, I''m sure he was put off because you looked so pretty. He doesn''t want to notice things like that." Callandra looked down shyly. "I should get going," he said. "But first I better check how those sandcastles are doing . or maybe I''ll leave the judging till tomorrow.
" "Aye," said Callandra, smiling. "If Abernathy could see you now, he''d never get his mind back to Culloden Moor." She didn''t move but felt a blush heating up her cheeks. "I can''t wait to see those sandcastles tomorrow," he said, releasing her with a look of longing. He started to walk away. She stood by the tree, stunned by what had just happened, watching him walk down the road until he disappeared around the bend. It felt like the happiest day of her life. But when she walked into the farmhouse, she discovered that the extra wagons were in the driveway because her father had died.
* Ross Buchanan had been such a strong presence in Callandra''s life that it was hard to imagine him gone. He''d loved all of his children, but had particularly doted on her. The eldest of seven, Callandra had absorbed his freethinking ideas and ways of looking at the world. It had been his disapproval of war that had prompted her to counter Mr. Abernathy''s patriotic view that courage alone is enough to win battles. She felt a sudden, stinging sadness in realizing she would never get to tell her father how she''d challenged Mr. Abernathy and then flouted his orders in front of the class. He would have been proud.
Sadie Buchanan wept openly in the days leading up to her husband''s funeral. She had always been stable and steady, focused on the needs of everyone but herself, so Callandra was devastated to see her mother so blank-faced and dispirited. The little country church was packed for the funeral. Ross Buchanan had managed his small farm without apparent strain, growing potatoes and raising chickens and pigs. So, family and friends were still in shock from his sudden death, apparently from heart failure. Callandra sat on the wooden bench between her mother and her fourteen-year-old sister, Beitiris. So many times she''d sat on this same bench, but with her father there, too. She realized now how comforting his presence had been, how secure it had made her little world.
He never took Christian dogma too seriously, but he spoke highly about the church for the way it brought the community together each Sunday. And so Callandra had come to appreciate it for that, too. But now, without his gentle smile and kind eyes, the church felt like a very cold place. Trying to avoid crying, Callandra kept her eyes forward, away from her grieving family. But this left her staring straight at her father''s coffin, intensifying her sadness. When the minister appeared at the pulpit, she was relieved to have somewhere else to fix her gaze. There was much to study in this peculiar-looking man. She''d heard that he''d come from Glasgow, due to the illness of Reverend Patterson, who had been the local pastor since her father was a child.
This preacher had none of Reverend Patterson''s warmth. He was short, and had pallid skin; deeply set, narrow eyes; and strange, protruding lips. His eulogy was almost completely impersonal, referring to her father only as "this good man" after once using his name. He even had to check his notes before mentioning that Fenwick was the town where they were gathered together on this sad day. It was such a sharp contrast to the eulogy that would have been delivered by Reverend Patterson, and its remoteness drove home Callandra''s feelings of pain and loss. It was made worse by the Glasgow minister''s stutter. "F-F-F-F-Fenwick," he had said. After the service, Callandra and her mother led the small crowd from the church to the burial site, the warmth of the sun softening the bleakness of the event.
Still, the comforting words about her father going to a better place were rudely contradicted by the facts -- the coffin in the cold ground, her mother a tearful shroud of black, her brothers and sisters all cleanly attired to say goodbye. There was no escape from the cavalcade of saddening sights. She allowed herself to search the crowd and spotted Mr. and Mrs. McLeod with their two oldest children, Alex and Bernadette. * Everyone came back to the house afterward. It was warm enough to sit outside, and no one was crying now. Sandwiches and cakes were served with punch; the men drank whisky.
Callandra helped with the younger children, conscious of Alex standing a short distance away. She went to her brother Duncan, who had spilled his plate of food, bringing her closer to Alex. She cringed as she heard Duncan ask Alex if they were all still going to the Stewarton Fair. Before she could scold him, she sensed someone approaching from behind. "Excuse me, miss." Callandra looked around; it was the minister. He was shorter than he''d looked in the church, not much taller than her. "I''m Reverend Scott," he said.
"You''re the eldest child, I believe." "Aye, sir," she responded. "I hope I''ve been a comfort to your family in this t-t-t-t-t-terrible time." "Yes." "The death of a loved one takes an enormous toll," he continued. "Fortunately, we have the Lord and the scriptures to help us through it." Callandra had no response. "You seem very t-t-t-t-t-troubled," said the minister, taking her hand.
"Oh no. I''m fine," she said, pulling it back. "I mean, I''m doing fine." He reached again for her hand, this time securing it. "Let''s take a little walk." A request from a minister was difficult to decline. They walked a shor.