A Forbidden Liaison with Miss Grant

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Lockhart—Robert, his name was Robert—we were what you’d call childhood sweethearts and if it had been up to me, we’d have married and settled down long before he became the laird’s factor. But he was ambitious. He followed his father into the church, spent several years away from Clachan Bridge training for the ministry, though it didn’t work out for him. I waited, I was happy enough teaching. He came back, and took up the post working for the laird as I told you.’

  Constance bit her lip, staring down at her hands. ‘I thought I knew him so well, but when it became clear I could not persuade him to put the people he had grown up with, never mind the woman he said he loved, before his own ambition, I had no option but to end our arrangement. Since then—no, I’ve no desire to marry, not now. I’m too set in my ways to give any man control over how I live my life, and I’ve long given up on the idea of having children of my own. If I ever return to teaching, there will be children enough for me to care for.’

  ‘Do you have plans to do that?’

  ‘Not yet. I have other undertakings I must complete first. Not least of which,’ she added before he could ask what these might be, ‘is surviving the ordeal of my fortieth birthday. I never used to think I looked like my mother, but as I get older, when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window or a glass, there she is, staring right back at me. She told me once that when she looked in the mirror she was always surprised to find her mother staring back at her. Which must have disconcerted my father. He referred to his mother-in-law as Morag the Monster—you know, the mythical beast who is supposed to live in the depths of Loch Morar?’

  Grayson accepted the very deliberate change of subject equitably, being no more eager to let the mundane business of everyday life intrude on their time than she. ‘I can’t say I’ve come across Morag before, but she sounds like a very friendly kind of monster.’

  Constance chuckled. ‘Not if my father is to be believed.’

  ‘Well I can assure you that there is nothing of the monster at all about you.’

  ‘Why thank you kindly, sir.’

  ‘Not the most effusive of compliments, I’ll grant you.’

  ‘Oh, at my age, one gratefully accepts any praise.’

  ‘At your age!’ Grayson lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to her knuckles. ‘Aye, you’ve one foot in the grave right enough.’

  ‘Well maybe a toe.’

  She looked charmingly flustered by his touch. A simple kiss, and not even on the mouth, had him feeling a bit flustered himself. ‘Bollocks,’ he said, just for the sake of shocking her into one of her sinful smiles.

  He was amply rewarded. ‘Your language is most uncivilised.’

  ‘That’s your fault. You make me feel very uncivilised.’

  ‘Verrrry.’ She leaned across him to flutter her fingers over his jaw, to curl them into his hair.

  ‘Constance?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think it’s only fair to warn you that I’m going to have to kiss you if you come any closer.’

  ‘Surely not in front of Angus,’ she said her lips a whisper away from his.

  ‘We’ll have to do our level best not to wake him.’

  Their mouths met, their lips only just touching for the longest, tantalising moment before they opened, and the kiss began. Such a kiss. Slow. Lingering. Lips and tongues. Her eyes drifted closed. It was the kind of kiss that made the world disappear, to leave only the two of them, melting into each other. The kind of kiss that could go on and on and on until...

  Until the reek of a small, impatient terrier’s breath got between them and made them pull apart with mutual cries of disgust that quickly became laughter.

  Looking anxiously around her and relieved to see that they were still alone, Constance grabbed her bonnet, stuffing her hair, which had come out of its pins, underneath it. ‘I can’t believe we did that. In a public park, for goodness sake.’

  ‘In front of Angus, too. Look at him, he’s shocked to the core.’ The dog was distractedly scratching his ear.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘The need to slake a thirst after a drought,’ Grayson quipped as he stood, holding out his hand to help her up.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  He kept hold of her hand. ‘No, I don’t. That was a vulgar joke, which I apologise for. I don’t know what it is, and I’ve no mind to put a name to it either. It was delightful, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘I had better get back, for I’m sure it’s much later than I think and there’s a man coming to the house to measure up for some new curtains and I have a host of other domestic tasks that I won’t bore you with. What will you do for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Count the hours until I see you again. What about tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t. As I said, I have a list the length of my arm to complete, but I should be free all the next day. I could help you to look for a hotel, if you like.’

  ‘I would appreciate that, though there’s no rush. I was thinking I might stay on a few days. I reckon I’ve earned a wee holiday. The yard is in good hands, and Neil and Shona have one of their mother’s cousins staying with them.’ Grayson grimaced. ‘Like the rest of that family, she’s more than happy not to have dealings with me. So I’m in no rush to get back to Glasgow just yet. What if I was here to help see you through this birthday you’re dreading?’

  ‘You might be well and truly fed up with me by then.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘You’ll be able to become bosom friends with Angus.’

  ‘Temptress!’

  Constance laughed. ‘Now that’s a description that’s not ever been applied to me before. Till Thursday then.’

  Chapter Five

  Though the self-proclaimed Jacobite King languishes still in the English capital, my little bird with his ear to the ground tells me that Lord Montagu has offered the home of his ward, the young Duke of Buccleuch, as a temporary residence suitable for a monarch. So confident is Lord Montagu that his generous offer will be accepted, that he has already decanted from Dalkeith House to take up residence in the Barrie Hotel. A self-imposed Clearance, if you like. A tribute to the actions of his fellow landowners or a mocking parody? You decide.

  Meanwhile, that expert in creating Highland myths, no less a personage than Sir Walter Scott, himself a relative of Lord Montagu, has taken it upon himself to supervise the preparations for the visit which must surely be imminent. Look out your tartan, abandon your credulity, and prepare to take part in a pageant designed to advance the fiction that our nation is both united and a fair and just society. In order to achieve this a thick plaid veil will be conveniently drawn over the vile Clearing of the Highlanders from their lands. Why not send them overseas to test their mettle, and rid Scotland of those too lazy or ignorant to improve themselves? some say. They just happen to be the very people who would profit most from their absence. They believe the noble Highlanders who have fought their causes, ploughed their lands and lined their pockets for centuries, now consider them less valuable than the sheep who replace them. And while they are believed, while the myths they propagate go unquestioned, the Clearing will continue unabated, right under the King’s florid regal nose.

  Flora MacDonald, New Jacobite Journal

  Thursday, 11th July 1822

  Grayson had arranged to meet Constance on the Esplanade in front of the castle, and was rather taken aback to discover the space crowded with what he at first thought must be troops from the barracks, drilling. But there seemed to be at least three separate groups, and none of them wore the official Government Tartan. Bagpipes were wailing discordantly as each cadre was drilled to a different beat. Some of the men wore plaids, some were armed to the teeth, but others appeared to be dressed for a day ploughing the fields. One man, garbed in the full regalia of a warrior c
omplete with eagle feathers crowning the bonnet perched over his flaming red locks, carrying a sword and shield, was bellowing orders at his better-dressed band of Highlanders from atop a large carthorse.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Constance!’ Grayson whirled round. ‘Where did you spring from?’

  ‘I had business in the West Port, down near the Grassmarket.’ Her brow was furrowed, her smile seemed forced.

  ‘Not altogether pleasant business, by the looks of you.’

  ‘It can be difficult, when you feel passionately about something, to accept that others might feel quite differently. Or even worse, be completely indifferent.’ She blinked rapidly, obviously on the verge of tears, before catching herself, forcing a smile. ‘I’m not one to give up without a fight though. Never mind that, have I kept you waiting long?’

  Clearly she did not wish to be questioned. Curious as he was, he followed her lead. ‘No, and anyway, there’s been plenty to keep me entertained. I like your gown, the blue suits you.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you. It’s new. Not my usual style, more fussy, but...’

  ‘I like the ruffles, and the braiding on the neckline. It’s very stylish, all the more because you’re wearing it. You know, when you blush so charmingly like that, I want to kiss you.’

  She relaxed, her smile softening. ‘If you want to shock the living daylights out of the world and his wife, then please do so.’

  ‘I can never resist a challenge.’

  ‘Grayson! Act your age.’

  ‘When I’m with you, all thoughts of lambswool vests and felt slippers go right out of my mind.’

  Constance giggled. ‘I confess, that though I saw the perfect walking stick when I was shopping yesterday, and it was a bargain too, I decided to postpone purchasing it until after you’ve returned to Glasgow.’

  A bellow from the red-haired man in the feathered bonnet made them both look over. One poor unfortunate seemed not to know his left from his right and was consequently causing chaos and pile-ups.

  ‘That strutting peacock is the legend that is MacDonnell of Glengarry,’ Constance said. ‘He was apparently the role model for Walter Scott’s Fergus McIvor from Waverley, and he seems determined to live up to it. Would you look at him, prancing about on that horse like he owns the place.’

  ‘Aye, he’s a right arrogant wee shite, isn’t he—if you’ll pardon my language.’

  ‘Feel free to call him whatever you want.’ Her lip curled. ‘He’s one of those men who never walks five yards without his trail of grovelling courtiers to demonstrate his importance. That outfit he’s wearing is of his own invention. He calls it the Garb of the Old Gaul, though when he imagines any Old Gaul wore it or for what purpose, I’ve no idea. He has another costume he wears when he plays the soldier, as opposed to the Lochaber chief, with a red coat and a plume of black ostrich feathers.’

  ‘I can see that you’re much taken with him. Aside from looking like a tartan peacock, what’s he done to rile you?’

  ‘He’s the epitome of a type that’s become all too prevalent in the Highlands, that’s all. He prides himself on being called the laird, yet he’s dispatched all the real Highlanders who were his tenants off to the wilds of Canada so that he and his cronies can hunt stags, and play at jousting with claymores.’

  ‘Jousting with claymores! No, surely that’s an invention of Walter Scott’s?’

  ‘It’s not, I assure you. Glengarry makes sure his exploits and those of his wee Highland society are reported in the press. The dinners he gives for other so-called Highland gentlemen and their wives, are eaten to the tune of the pipes.’

  ‘That would certainly put an end to any conversation, to say nothing of ruining your digestion.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, but there’s worse, when the meal is over.’

  ‘Dirk dancing on the table?’ Grayson hazarded, laughing. ‘No wait, he expects his guests to sing for their supper.’

  ‘No, for then they might upstage him. You’ll never guess. He has his own bard. A blind man, who recites obsequious poetry in praise of his laird.’

  ‘Good grief. Are you teasing?’

  ‘I wish I was.’ Constance turned her back on the marching groups. ‘He’d be a more honest chieftain if he was parading his sheep about.’

  As yet another about-turn resulted in raised voices and pushing and shoving, Grayson snorted. ‘Sheep would be more intelligent and easier to marshal. Come away from this risible spectacle and take a look at something worth admiring. The view out over the New Town, it’s splendid,’ he said, ushering her over to the low ramparts. ‘Hard to believe that was once a loch down there, isn’t it? You can see quite clearly from here, how well planned the New Town is, all those straight streets and neat blocks. There are parts of Glasgow being constructed in a similar way.’

  But Constance’s attention had returned to Glengarry. ‘Doesn’t it make you sick to your back teeth, this pageant Edinburgh is putting on to celebrate the Highlander, when there’s likely to be no Highlanders left if what they call progress is allowed to continue?’

  ‘It’s shocking, and your own experience of it is tragic, but I don’t see how it can be stopped. That cockerel crowing over there, he’s a joke figure who’s come to believe the myth Walter Scott has created for him, but he’s not breaking the law, unless there’s a law against being a bigger horse’s arse than that belonging to your steed.’

  ‘You have a way with words that I cannot compete with.’

  Turning her back on the parade, she smiled up at him, and Grayson’s heart lifted as they stood side by side, looking out over the New Town. She was such a slight wee thing, yet there was iron at the core of her that awed him. She, who had suffered and endured so much, saved her pity for those who had suffered more. She was bitter, not at the hand fate had drawn for her, but at the perpetrators. He’d never met a woman like her. He felt no urge to protect her, to shield her, to cushion her path. She wasn’t in the least bit like Eliza. But if he was younger, if he didn’t have Shona and Neil to care for, if he was setting out again to establish his shipyard, he’d be fortunate to have a woman like Constance at his side, to counsel him and to bolster him. For there had been times in the past when he’d doubted himself, wondered if he’d been over-ambitious or insufficiently so, if his judgement was flawed.

  Eliza had given up so much to marry him, he did everything he could to make the life she’d chosen comfortable and free of worries. He’d loved her with all his heart. He’d known Constance for three days. What he felt wasn’t love but an affinity, the like of which he’d never felt before, and he knew she felt it too. It was a terrible shame they only had a short time to enjoy it.

  ‘It’s an amazing view, isn’t it?’ She smiled up at him. ‘All those neat rows of houses, such a contrast to the sprawl of the Old Town. The streets down there will be awash with lairds and clan chiefs, lord, ladies, marquesses and countesses and all their entourages, all of them clad in tartan, if Walter Scott has his way. Though contrary to what he believes, Highlanders don’t go about their daily business wearing fancy plaids and matching stockings, never mind sporrans.’

  ‘If only my business was weaving and not shipbuilding, I’d make a fortune.’

  ‘If you’re planning on attending the gentleman’s levee at Holyrood or escorting your daughter to the ladies’ drawing room, you’d better think about how you’re going to deck yourself and your children out, you know.’

  ‘I’m not thinking we’ll be invited to attend any such events. They’ll be for the great and the good, not humble men like me, who build ships.’

  ‘But your daughter, will she have expectations? She’s sixteen, old enough to make her curtsy in front of the King, and to have her cheek kissed.’

  ‘I’m not going to allow anyone to slobber on my daughter’s cheek, not even the King.’

  ‘It’s c
onsidered an honour.’ Constance’s mouth was prim, but her eyes were alight with laughter. ‘I believe that Harriet Siddons, the actress, may be hired to teach the young ladies the correct way to receive the royal embrace.’

  ‘My daughter isn’t going to receive any embrace, royal or otherwise, until she’s a good deal older.’

  ‘Are you planning on locking her up in a keep, and throwing away the key until she’s—what, twenty?’

  ‘Oh, no, thirty at least.’ He held his hands up to forestall her protest. ‘No, don’t say it, I know perfectly well that’s ridiculous, but I’ll be damned if Shona’s first kiss is going to be from a fat king several times her age squeezed into a kilt.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness! I hadn’t even considered—can you imagine the King in a kilt?’

  He shuddered theatrically. ‘Like a sausage bursting from its skin. Surely he wouldn’t be so misguided. He’ll make himself a laughing stock.’

  ‘Then I most sincerely hope he is so misguided, though sadly, I’m beginning to think you were right when you said that the people of Edinburgh would welcome him with open arms.’

  ‘It’s not so much the King, as an excuse for a celebration or twenty. You can’t blame people for wanting a bit of fun.’

  ‘Will you consider it fun, I wonder, escorting your daughter to a ball?’ Constance laughed, seeing his expression of horror. ‘Fortunately for you, invitations will be at a premium.’

  But Grayson cursed under his breath. ‘I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before now. Shona and Neil’s grandparents,’ he said impatiently, for Constance was looking blank, ‘they are bound to be here for the festivities.’

  They wouldn’t have a problem getting themselves invited to any levee or drawing room, and they’d make damned sure their grandchildren knew it. Dear God, they might even offer them the chance to take part, let them catch a glimpse of what life could be like if they—what was the phrase—embraced their heritage. And abandon their father in the process. ‘I’ll just have to make a point of studiously avoiding them,’ he said, as much for his own benefit as Constance’s. ‘The city will be packed to the gunnels, it shouldn’t be too difficult.’