Free Wild Island by Antonia Fraser Page A

since she spoke at such loving length concerning her own charges, the vast, in every sense of the word, family of the Colonel and Lady Edith.
    'Mr Ben, aye, what a handsome lad he's grown into, he was my first baby, the flower of the flock said Lady Edith many times to me; and flower he is indeed... Mr Rory then, he's much quieter of course; indeed he's awful quiet but verra charming when you know his ways, a deep one I called him as a baby, slow to walk, verra deep, but walking verra fast when he did learn with his long legs, and of course he loves it here so much. Ah sure it's a tragedy there's no work round here. But there's no work for him in the Glen, so he has to go away to get work, travelling so often, even to London. Many's the time he's told me: Bridie, I would do anything in the world to live here, maybe here right at Tigh Fas, after all it's empty, anything short of murder, he'd say with a laugh.'
    As Bridie bustled on in her narrative to further descriptions of Hamish (slow both to read and to walk) and Gavin and Niall (slow both to read and to talk and to walk, this time, so far as she could make out, and now following useful unmemorable careers in outposts of the former Empire or the Army) Jemima brooded on Bridie's last words concerning Rory. Was it Rory ? Yes, Rory. She would never learn to tell them apart, and hoped she would never have to. But this was the second time today that a member of the Beauregard family was quoted as having spoken yearningly of murder. Death and land. 'A Glen worth killing for,' Colonel Henry had told Duncan. Rory had said of himself that he would do anything short of murder. What a primitive lot, thought Jemima with distaste. There was one thing of which she was quite positive: not all the land in the world was worth the sacrifice of a man's life.
    But the line of Beauregards seemed like Banquo's descendants to stretch till the crack of doom.
    'Isn't there quite a young boy as well ?' she enquired.
    'Aye, that's Kim,' said Bridie. Her voice was quite doting. 'My baby. He's fifteen.'
    By now the tea, the gargantuan tea, had been despatched. Bridie took the tray. Jemima followed her into the hall to the ancient kitchen with its range, like something out of a deserted mediaeval hall. Even here there were antlers, heads, lesser heads, servant class. In the hall of the house she stopped beneath one gigantic head and read the plaque:
    'Shot by Charles Edward Beauregard. Cwm Fair. September 27 1930 .'
    For a moment the date baffled her, then she realized that the sportsman in question must have been Charles's father, Carlo. Another large plaque read: 'Shot equally by Charles Edward Beauregard and Henry Benedict Beauregard, October 2 1932. '
    'They never could agree who shot that stag,'said Bridie, following the direction of her gaze. She was now attired in headscarf and mackintosh. 'So they had the plaque made for them both. What times we had here: when the house was gay, full of visitors.'
    With a start Jemima realized that Bridie, for all her weather-beaten appearance, must in fact be about the same age as the brother Colonels. There had been a charming wistfulness, a youthful reminiscence in her voice, quite different from the doting maternal tone with which she had spoken of the Beauregard children she had nursed.
    Outside Bridie wheeled an ancient bicycle from behind one of the thicker green shrubs. She was preparing-reluctantly -to go. Jemima herself decided to explore a little of the island while the light lasted. She had no wish for the woman to prolong her stay, still less to unleash another flood of reminiscence. Nevertheless the sight of that double plaque filled her with a sudden urge to ask at least one of the many unanswered questions which she felt still lay between her, as tenant of Tigh Fas, and Bridie Stuart, its imperial guardian.
    'It must have been a great shock to you,' she said impulsively. 4 I mean, the death of Mr Charles Beauregard.'
    Bridie, half on her bicycle,