‘Will have to learn to get used to the idea. So will the Glenbranters. Why should we be the only ones willing to compromise, to sacrifice a little for the sake of some one else’s happiness?’
‘You make it sound simple.’
‘I know it’s not, far from it. But I’ve made so many sacrifices already, I’m damned if I’ll make the biggest sacrifice of all, the chance of happiness with you, and I’m damned if I’m prepared to spend the rest of my life missing you. What do you say, Constance? Shall we try for a happy ending and to hell with the consequences?’
‘I’d rather try for a happy beginning, middle and end. My head is whirling.’
‘Then don’t answer now. We’ll leave our audience in suspense.’
‘I’d forgotten all about them.’ She forgot about them again, looking into his eyes. Here he was, her other half. Surely it was worth any amount of compromise and struggle, if they could find a way to be together? ‘What if we discover it’s a mistake, it’s simply not possible?’
‘Then why don’t we put that to the test? What if we agree that we’re not getting married, not just yet, and see if we can’t iron out those so-called insurmountable obstacles. A year, that should do it, shouldn’t it? In a year, all being well, I’ll ask you to marry me.’
‘Or not, if we fail.’
‘But then at least we’ll know. Then there won’t be any doubt. We’ll be able to walk away knowing that it couldn’t work, rather than wondering. I love you so much, Constance.’
‘I’d like to say that’s all that matters.’
He pulled her into his arms. ‘Right now, it is,’ he said.
He kissed her, and she kissed him right back, with gusto, utterly oblivious to the very audible outraged gasps coming from the other side of the room.
* * *
As all good things must—depending on your point of view—the King’s visit has come to an end. And so, dear reader, has the tenure of the New Jacobite Journal. Flora has, quite literally, nothing more to say, save to thank you for supporting her efforts to give a voice to those with no voice of their own.
Ultimately, we might have achieved little, but at least we ensured that someone bore witness to the suffering of the disposed in the Highlands, and to the identity of their oppressors. I sincerely believe that history will judge this shameful chapter in Scotland’s history harshly. I am proud to have played a small part in ensuring that truth will eventually prevail, even if justice proves to be more elusive.
Like my namesake, having enjoyed brief notoriety, this Flora intends to slip into obscurity, a mere footnote in our nation’s history.
Flora MacDonald, final issue of
New Jacobite Journal, 30th August 1822
Chapter Seventeen
Glasgow—Monday, 14th July 1823
‘Happy birthday, my darling.’ Grayson strode into Constance’s study bearing a parcel.
Shoving her chair back from her desk, she leapt to her feet. ‘It’s arrived!’
‘Quite literally hot off the press.’ He held it out of her reach. ‘Kiss first.’
‘You had a kiss first thing this morning, same as every morning.’ She tried to reach for the parcel. ‘An awful lot more than just a kiss, if I remember correctly!’
He caught her by the waist, kissing her soundly. ‘I can never, ever have enough of your kisses. You take my breath away.’
‘You say the loveliest things. Now please may I have my parcel?’
‘Here you are.’
Her fingers were shaking as she struggled with the knot in the string. As it pulled tight she groaned in frustration, finally pulling it free by brute force. The brown paper opened to reveal a book bound in blue cloth with gold lettering. She traced the title reverently. ‘I can’t believe it’s real.’
‘All your own work. I am very proud of you, Constance.’
‘It probably won’t sell well.’
‘Probably not,’ Grayson deadpanned. ‘That first run of five thousand copies will lie mouldering in all the bookshops which have ordered it.’
‘Five thousand! That many?’
‘Remember, it’s being sold beyond these shores, in bookshops in England and as far away as Canada too.’
‘Paul has worked a miracle.’
‘No, you have. It was your work—or Flora’s if you like—which caught the eye of Harriet Siddons, the lead actress from the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh. Your work which inspired Mrs Siddons and her husband to put on those melodramas based on Flora’s Highland tales which proved so popular. Paul had the business sense to publish the plays alongside a selection of Flora’s best pieces, which was probably the best move he’s ever made. People can’t get enough tales of Clachan Bridge.’
Constance ruffled the uncut pages of her book, lifting it to her nose and inhaling. ‘I worry that I’ve trivialised it all by turning it into a story.’
‘What you’ve done is document a way of life that is being systematically destroyed. What is in this wee book is a story of the simple beauty of the Highlands, of the harshness of the environment and the proud people who lived there. It’s an ode to a dying way of life.’
‘That is lovely, but I happen to know that you are quoting from Paul’s advertisements.’
‘It doesn’t mean it’s not true. It’s a shame we won’t see it in the bookshops until we come back.’
‘Are we really going away for two whole months? What about our chosen mode of transport, is she ready?’
‘The cabin interiors were completed last week. I didn’t tell you, because I wanted today to be the first time you saw her since you launched her hull.’
‘Two whole months of sleeping under the Mediterranean sky, just you and I.’
‘You and I and the crew and the mosquitoes. But no children, neither my two nor your schoolroom full in the Borders, and not an interfering grandparent in sight.’
‘Shona is so excited to be taking over some of my classes in James’s school, now that I’m going to be opening our own when we come back. What a transformation in her, in one year.’
‘In no small part down to you.’
‘You should be very proud of her. She is a fine, independent young woman.’
‘Who is very childishly excited about being your bridesmaid later. Thank goodness one of my children holds you in as high esteem as I do. She speaks Gaelic like a native too, now.’
‘That’s thanks to her grandmother, I can’t take any credit for that.’
‘That’s a talent the old bat kept well hidden.’ Grayson rolled his eyes. ‘I’m glad the pair of you hit it off, but that woman makes my hackles rise every time we meet. Within a week she was calling you my dear Constance, but I’ll remain Mr Maddox until the day she parts company with the earth.’
‘There is every chance I’ll be relegated to Mrs Maddox after we’ve tied the knot.’
‘In about two hours’ time. Pearl and Isabel got here safely, I take it?’
‘They’re putting up at a hotel in the town. I couldn’t persuade them to stay here.’
‘I can’t believe it’s finally really happening.’ Grayson pulled her into his arms. ‘You’re not having second thoughts, Constance?’
‘No. Are you?’
‘Never, about what I feel for you. Not once.’
‘That’s never been the problem. It’s Neil, isn’t it?’
‘Who else! I’d feel an awful lot happier if he was staying with the Murrays while we are away.’
‘His grandfather won’t have him on the estate, now that he’s decided he wants nothing to do with it.’
‘Typical, isn’t it. For years I didn’t want him to have anything to do with the place either. Then when I met you, I started worrying that my son was going to inherit acres of sheep-filled moors that had been stripped of their crofters. Ironically, when it turns out that old
man Murray is one of the few decent landlords in the north, my son suddenly decides that he’s going to—actually, I’ve lost track of what it is he says he’s going to do.’
‘He’s fifteen. His head’s all over the place.’
‘I know. He’s unsettled.’
‘We can’t assume we’re to blame for it,’ Constance said, setting her book down and taking his hands. ‘Lads are like that at his age. There’s every chance he’ll grow out of it.’
‘You realise there’s a chance he might not turn up today. It’s not you he’s furious with, it’s me.’
She couldn’t argue with that, for she had witnessed too many of the battles between father and son over the last year. Constance’s heart sank. ‘Are you suggesting we postpone our special day?’
‘No. What I want to do is shake some sense into him.’ Grayson shrugged impatiently. ‘He didn’t say he definitely wasn’t coming to the ceremony today, which I take as a good sign. He’s a really gifted draughtsman, Constance, but of course he won’t let on to me that’s where his interest lies. I’m hoping that Hamish will sort him out while we’re away. And when we come back and move into the new house, hopefully Neil will see that as a fresh start for himself too. In the meantime, I’m going to have to trust in Hamish to keep him under his wing.’
‘Hamish is great with Neil.’
‘He’s indispensable to me too, now that I’ve cut back on my hours at the yard. Best offer of employment I ever made, was to that man.’
‘And you had no idea that he was anything other than a poor down-on-his-luck fellow Glaswegian when you hired him and his dinghy that day.’
‘What a day that was. Are you happy, Constance?’
‘I never knew I could be so happy.’
‘Nor I, my darling, but I can wait a little longer if you are having doubts?’
‘I have worries, and we still have plenty of problems to solve, but I don’t have doubts. I’ve stopped trying to change the world and turned my mind to shaping the future. I might occasionally come second in your priorities sometimes, just as you are in mine, but I know I’m never second-best, and I hope you know the same.’
‘I never doubt it. I’ve missed you madly, while you’ve been away setting up that school of James’s.’
‘I couldn’t let him down.’
‘Of course you couldn’t. I’ll doubtless miss you just as madly when we come back and you get stuck into establishing your own school here. But I wouldn’t change you for the world. I love you so much, Constance.’
She twined her arms around his neck, reaching up to kiss him deeply. ‘I love you too. I can’t wait to promise I will love you for ever.’ She kissed him again. ‘And ever.’
‘For evermore,’ Grayson said, planting one final kiss on her lips. ‘My constant Constance.’
* * *
If you enjoyed this book, be sure to read the
Penniless Brides of Convenience miniseries
by Marguerite Kaye
The Earl’s Countess of Convenience
A Wife Worth Investing In
The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage
The Inconvenient Elmswood Marriage
Historical Note
The Scottish Clearances marked the mass dispossession of land and displacement of population in the Highlands and rural Lowlands during the late eighteenth and early to mid-nineteenth century. In a nutshell, the landed gentry forcefully removed crofters who had farmed the lands for centuries, replacing the people with more profitable sheep.
Though James Loch and Patrick Sellar are often reviled for being the architects of the Clearances on the Sutherland lands, the situation is—of course!—much more complicated. However, Constance’s experience in this book is not exaggerated. The events which unfolded at the fictional village of Clachan Bridge are lifted from real-life examples, as are those she describes when writing as Flora.
If you’re interested in reading more about this troubled and complex period of Scottish history I can recommend T.M. Devine’s The Scottish Clearances—or, for a more colourful if somewhat biased account, John Prebble’s The Highland Clearances.
There was no such publication as the New Jacobite Journal. Surprisingly little was made of the Clearances in the contemporary press until John Delane of The Times published Charles Spence’s accounts in 1845.
King George IV arrived in Leith on the twelfth of August 1822 for a two-week-long visit that allowed Sir Walter Scott to re-imagine the myth of the Highlander. Edinburgh was decked out in tartan and heather, and any number of rites were invented and enacted, which were subsequently adopted as ancient traditions by the Victorians.
Though I’ve altered the July timeline in my book slightly to suit my story, the August dates and the events mentioned are all historically accurate. I owe an enormous debt to John Prebble’s colourful account of what became known as The King’s Jaunt. I haven’t had to invent a single colourful detail. Among other things, George really did wear pink tights because his kilt was too short. And the rain, a topic prevalent in a number of my books, really did fall like stair-rods almost every day.
Grayson’s ships are Clyde-built. I live on the Clyde, as you’ll know if you follow my early-morning posts on Twitter, and I have strong personal links to the shipbuilding industry there. Grayson is not my first shipbuilding hero either. If you like your heroes self-made and a bit rough around the edges, you can check out my other two in Strangers at the Altar and Unwed and Unrepentant.
I’ve taken a few liberties with the timing of the introduction of steamships. The Carrick Castle was actually built in 1870. I chose to feature her because she sailed on Loch Goil, near my own home.
Grayson does not speak like a Regency hero. I have no idea what a rough Glaswegian would have sounded like back in 1822, so I’ve made him sound like a contemporary Weegie. I had fun with his language. I know... I know...it’s anachronistic—but it’s my book!
There’s a lot more history in this book that I don’t have the space to go into here. For more details of sources, and blogs connected with my research, check out my website. Any mistakes are all my own doing.
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Return of the Disappearing Duke by Lara Temple.
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The Return of the Disappearing Duke
by Lara Temple
Prologue
Greybourne Hall, Hertfordshire
—Christmas 1800
The day he ran away was the day the lake at Greybourne Hall froze.
It wasn’t a thick cover of ice, just enough to glaze over the last dark jade glimmer of water like a dead fish’s eye staring heavenwards. Snowflakes frosted the reeds and swirled up the banks in fairy-tale gusts into the open door of Greybourne Chapel. Safely inside, they hovered for a moment to glint in the pale morning sun, before falling to the unusual chequered floor in abeyance, just like all the unhappy people crowded inside.
Unlike most chapels, there were no pews or cushions and no one was allowed to sit on the carved stone benches that lined the wall. Everyone from the Duchess and her son to the grooms and scullery maids were on their knees.
Everyone but Rafe’s father, the Duke of Greybourne. The Duke stood above them like a rearing bear, his fists clenched and raised, his voice spewing damnation upon them all.
Rafe had years ago ceased listening to the roaring rumble of his father’s morning sermons. When he’d been younger he’d distracted himself with daydreams about great feats of bravery. Now he would soon be sixteen and had other things on his mind.
A month ago, the object of his fantasies had been Lizzy, the very pretty daughter of the postmaster in t
he village near his school. But that was a whole month ago and now his mind dwelt with delight on the new parlourmaid Susan who was kneeling across from him.
She had big blue eyes and freckles over every inch of her that he could see, which was not very much, but his mind imagined much more. She was some years older than he and he’d heard from the servants that she fancied Lowell, the head groom. He knew, too, that this...tingling had little to do with courtly love, but she was so...so everything. She was plump and had the most charming giggle that would make his insides clench and his outsides perspire.
She was also, at the moment, the only reason to be grateful for his father’s daily Hell and Damnation sermon. So while his father ranted about descent into sin and something about frogs, Rafe’s gaze kept slipping back to Susan’s bowed head, her rounded shoulders, the generous bosom not even the unflattering apron could hide...
She peeped up suddenly and caught him. Embarrassment struck him even harder than lust. There was nothing he could do to stop the scalding blush that rushed upwards. Her mouth curved and even through the fumes of his combusting body he could see the compassion there and felt its sting.
They both looked away and, if his father had not reached the apex of his sermon, the incident might never have happened. But just then the Duke’s voice boomed. ‘Fornication shall bring thee down!’
And Susan giggled.
Silence.
As swiftly as the scalding heat had come it fell away, because he knew his father. They all did. Silence during a sermon was an ill omen. Rafe barely had time to gather his wits before his father lunged. He saw the Duke’s hands, great twisted claws, reaching, closing around her freckled throat, raising her clean off the stone floor. Rafe had never seen such horror as in her blue eyes. She gaped up at the Duke of Greybourne, her mouth twisted, her cheeks both pale and stained with colour, the freckles like specks of blood.
No one had yet moved when Rafe launched himself at his father. He saw them all, like chess pieces rooted on their ivory and ebony seats. Then he saw nothing.
A Forbidden Liaison with Miss Grant Page 22