Once Upon a Christmas Past

by Regan Walker

  “All save the apples surrounding the roast geese,” replied Emily. “Those, Captain Anderson brought me from London.”

  “Emily’s a wonder with growing things,” put in Ailie. “You should pay the orangery a visit, Robbie. You will be astounded.”

  “’Twas the first place I went the morning after we arrived,” said Nash, now working on a second helping of roast goose.

  Robbie thought his twin too self-satisfied in his pursuit of plants and Ailie Stephen for that matter. After all, Robbie had interests, though his tended more toward the dangerous variety, like racing down Rotten Row or bare-knuckle boxing at Jackson’s.

  While not needed on this trip, Robbie also possessed decent navigational skills. If Ailie designed ships, he could sail them, assuring they would arrive at their destination. “I would be happy to have a tour of the orangery if you were to escort me, Ailie.” So there, dear Brother.

  Nash frowned into his carrots. Muriel looked at Robbie askance, raising one of her silver brows. He ignored them both.

  “I’d be pleased to show it to you,” offered Ailie.

  “I have a sketch of it if you’d like to see it,” put in Kit. “By the bye, Emily, the stuffing is quite tasty.” Then to Muriel, “Do you think Mrs. Platt might share her recipe?”

  “She’d be flattered you asked,” returned the countess. “It is a family recipe of which she is quite proud.”

  At that moment, in walked Mrs. Platt and the Stephens’ dark-haired cook with Christmas pudding, mince pies and English gingerbread cake. Robbie’s eyes followed the parade of desserts; he was quite fond of gingerbread.

  “Oh, what lovely desserts!” exclaimed Mary. “Where shall I find the room?”

  “I fear we shall manage all too well,” said Muriel, eyeing the confections.

  “Our thanks to the two cooks who have brought us this grand feast!” proclaimed William.

  They rose as one from their seats to praise the two women. “To the cooks!”

  Nash wondered what Robbie was about. First, he had left the parlor and—Nash was quite certain—the house, and then, all during dinner, he had flirted outrageously with Ailie. After dinner, there had been games in the parlor. Not satisfied to have kissed Muriel under the bough, when Robbie guessed Ailie’s riddle in a game of rhyming charades, he had dared to claim a kiss from her as forfeit. Rogue indeed!

  Back in their chamber, Nash confronted his twin. “Good Lord. Did you have to kiss her?”

  “It was a circumspect kiss,” Robbie insisted. “Mark that I also kissed Muriel, who seemed to enjoy the attention. I do like the dowager countess. She has a quick mind.”

  “I daresay it was not Ailie’s mind that made you want to kiss her, intelligent though she is. And how could it be circumspect when you made Ailie blush?”

  “That blush did not result from my kiss, Brother, but what I said after.”

  Nash fumed. “Just what was that?”

  “I told her there were more kisses where that one came from. She had only to ask.”

  Nash snorted. “Hardly circumspect. More like provocative.”

  “I was merely teasing the lass. Now, do you want to know why I was late to dinner?”

  Nash took off his coat and sat on his bed, pulling off his boots, still miffed. “Do tell.”

  Robbie loosened his cravat and let out a sigh. “Seeing as you were occupied with the Mistress of the Setters, I thought to determine if anyone was watching the house or the shipyard. After this morning’s encounter at St Mary’s, it occurred to me they might have followed us home and posted a watch. Our direction could be easily ascertained.”

  Somewhat mollified, Nash said, “I’m grateful you thought of that. I would not want our business in Arbroath to bring harm to our family or friends. Learn anything?”

  “No. All was quiet. But, of course, they might have been here and gone. The Panmure sails tomorrow afternoon so perhaps they are unconcerned about any interference at this point.”

  Nash experienced a foreboding, much like the one he’d had that terrible day on St Peter’s Field. “I don’t suppose I can dissuade you from your intended course?”

  In a parody of Nash’s own words, Robbie tossed back, “Not a chance. And you’d best develop a plan. Recall that Emily said after presenting boxes to the servants, she intends to take baskets to Arbroath’s poor. The ladies, including Ailie, are going with her, which puts them in town when we’ll be on Marketgate waiting for Kinloch to depart for the ship.”

  Nash stared into the fire. He had a plan, but it might not be one Robbie would approve.

  Ailie sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair, the blue tartan shawl warming her shoulders. Underneath it, she wore only her shift. The girl looking back at her from the mirror glowed with happiness, her eyes filled with tears of joy.

  The cause wasn’t the evening, which had been most pleasant, or the English food, which she had quite liked, or even the games played with her new friends. No, the reason for the tears of joy filling her eyes could be explained only by Nash Powell.

  She could tell him apart from his twin now, even when they wore the same clothes. It was not just his unique mannerisms, his dry humor—so different than Robbie’s overt charm—or the lock of dark hair that often fell onto his forehead, teasing her to touch it. Rather, it was the way Nash looked at her, his thoughtfulness toward her and his kisses.

  They shared glances only they understood, and they shared their love of ships and simple pleasures. Her heart had become inexorably intertwined with his. Was it so important that he was English and she a Scot? That he was an Anglican and she Presbyterian? Or that they had different views on the current politics?

  Other than a few bouts of calf-love as a young girl, Ailie had never been in love, but she was certain what she felt for Nash was the stuff of which Rabbie Burns wrote in A Red, Red Rose. Nash had become a sweet melody to her, playing in her mind. Was it too much to think her love for him would endure “till all the seas ran dry”?

  She remembered his laughter, his face set aglow by the firelight, his glorious hazel eyes shining with mirth. When he kissed her, her blood sang in her veins. She wanted to see his face every day. She wanted to share a bed with him every night.

  Knowing she must record her thoughts this Christmas, she took a seat at her writing desk, dipping her quill in the ink.

  25 December

  A Happy Christmas, as the English say, made more so because I spent the day with Nash Powell. To please Emily and her friends—who are now my friends, too—we attended St Mary’s. It felt so right to be sitting in church with Nash. Afterward, we shared wassail and the Christmas feast. Yes, he is English, but he understands me and believes in my dream of one day seeing the Ossian sail. His very touch has me tingling in places I have never tingled before. I long for his kisses. It is hard to say goodnight when I must part from him. His words make me think he, too, has such thoughts.

  We have a week before he sails for London. Will he ask me to go as Muriel’s companion, or possibly something more? I could not bear it if he asked not at all.

  Chapter 18

  26 December, Boxing Day

  Nash’s plan was not without risks. But he could bear his brother’s wrath more readily than he could the idea of sending an innocent man to prison. Or looking into Ailie’s accusing eyes if she were to learn he’d had Kinloch arrested.

  He and Robbie had intentionally chosen to wear gentlemen’s clothing, though of a plainer variety. Their jackets and breeches were made of ordinary wool, their waistcoats an indiscriminate color, and their hats shorter than the ones they wore in London. Today was not for visiting taverns but for watching those heading toward the harbor and a particular ship.

  Nash had seen men in Arbroath dressed in similar fashion, so he and Robbie would blend in. Their greatcoats, worn over all, concealed their pistols which, at least in Nash’s case, he had no intention of using.

  Nash left Robbie pulling on his boots and went down to breakf
ast. He had intended to pass through the parlor on his way to the dining room, but when he reached the threshold, he paused, encountering an unexpected sight.

  The ladies, chatting and laughing, stood in the midst of tables covered with baskets, baked goods, ribbons and fresh vegetables and flowers he recognized as having come from the orangery.

  “If you linger there much longer, young man,” quipped Muriel, “we shall put you to work!”

  Ailie came to him, her cheeks flushed. He hoped it was for excitement at seeing him. She wore a simple blue day gown, her hair captured at her nape by a ribbon of the same color. The effect was enchanting. “Oh Nash, isn’t it amazing what Emily and Muriel have done?”

  He gave her a smile conveying his deep affection. “Good morning, Ailie. Yes, if you mean all that is before me, the effort appears… overwhelming.”

  She glanced toward the dining room. “The other men have gone into breakfast.”

  “Hiding behind closed doors?” he teased.

  She swatted him on his arm. “We sent them away if you want the truth of it. They were a distraction, as are you!”

  Nash looked behind her to take in the flurry of activity engaged in by the five other women laughing as they tied bows on the basket handles. “Have you ever done this before?”

  “Aye, if you mean have I brought gifts to the shipyard families and to the church for the poor, but no, if you mean have I worked with so many women to assemble pretty baskets. Why don’t you go in to breakfast?” In a flirtatious manner, she added, “I’m sure the men have saved you some haddies. There might even be an omelet with kale.”

  The smirk on her face told him she was in excellent humor. “Very funny, Miss Stephen.”

  “Go,” she urged. Looking over her shoulder at the women, she said, “We will join you as soon as we have finished assembling the baskets. Will has arranged for a wagon with bench seats on the sides so the other ladies and I can ride with the baskets between us. Won’t that be fun? Will has even agreed to take us himself.”

  “Brave man,” said Nash as he proceeded into the dining room.

  Stepping inside, Nash greeted the men and found his way to the sideboard.

  “Did you run the gauntlet of skirts, bows and baskets?” asked Hugh.

  “I did,” he said, lifting a plate and perusing the offerings. “’Twas most impressive.” Nash availed himself of a bowl of oatmeal and raspberries, but could not summon much hunger given what he knew lay ahead.

  He took a seat adjacent to William who was in his usual place at the head of the table. “Ailie tells me you are to drive the wagon taking the ladies to town. I thought it quite brave of you.”

  “Aye, I’m determined to be the knight today.”

  The others chuckled.

  “What stops will you make?” Nash hoped William did not find it an odd question. He had to know if they would be anywhere near him and Robbie.

  “We’ll visit the shipyard folks first, the ones with large families and small incomes who could use some help. And then we’ll go to St Mary’s to deliver the rest of the baskets to the minister there who knows the needy families in town. You are welcome to join us.”

  “Too many petticoats for me,” Nash replied, taking a swallow of his coffee and forcing down his rising panic. William’s schedule would put the women near the harbor just as the Panmure was to sail.

  He lifted his head to consider Hugh and Nick sitting across from him. “What might the rest of you be doing while the ladies deliver their baskets?”

  “I thought to ride along with them,” said Hugh. “They might need another hand to carry baskets.”

  “It is perfectly all right to admit you want to spend the day with your wife,” said William. “We require no excuse.”

  “Very well,” offered the marquess, “I intend to spend the day with my wife, but I’m sure you could use the manly support, Will.”

  Aware of how often Hugh and Mary had kept to themselves since coming to Arbroath, Nash smiled.

  “Martin and I plan to go over the orders Powell and Sons expects to place for ships this next year,” said Nash’s eldest brother Nick. He waggled his brows at their host. “We want to be prepared when we meet with William later today. How about you and Robbie?”

  “We hope to sample some of the local taverns in town.” There, he’d provided a reason for them to be in Arbroath.

  William gave him a curious look, but said nothing. Nash averted his gaze, regretting that Ailie’s brother might think he preferred getting foxed with Robbie to being with Ailie and the ladies, but he had to lay the groundwork should they be seen.

  Robbie viewed Marketgate from where he and Nash stood at the corner of that street and Bridge Street, a short way from the harbor. It was the most likely path Kinloch’s guards would take and the crossing allowed them a clear view of both streets.

  The sky above was clear of clouds for the first time in days, but the air was bitter cold. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, wrapping his right hand around his pistol. He hoped the threat of force would render Kinloch cooperative, though he worried about the guards, particularly Hamish and Lachy. It was too late to ask for the magistrate’s help and such men often complicated matters. He wanted no bloodbath on the streets of Arbroath.

  At the moment, those streets were bare, save only for snow piled in the corners. The atmosphere was dreary, the tall buildings lining Marketgate standing like cold dark sentinels braced against the wind blowing offshore.

  “I don’t like it,” he said in a hushed voice. “It’s too quiet. Feels like the whole town has gone into hiding. I fear we waited too long. Kinloch might already be aboard the Panmure. Passengers often board early on the day of sailing.”

  “Not Kinloch,” argued Nash. “His plan will be to board at the last minute, leaving no time to be seen or a magistrate to be summoned. Still, I doubt many of Arbroath’s citizens would inform on him.”

  “We’re not in Dundee,” Robbie reminded him. “Many in Scotland oppose the kind of change Kinloch advocates. ’Tis why he is called the Radical Laird.”

  “Not all oppose his views,” muttered Nash.

  “No, not all,” agreed Robbie, noting the brooding look on his brother’s face. He recognized its source. “The Mistress of the Setters is one who supports him.”

  They had inquired about the tide and, using their own knowledge and the activities underway onboard, guessed at the Panmure’s expected sailing time, now a mere quarter of an hour away.

  From where they stood, Robbie could see the masts of the ships in the harbor. They had passed the Panmure on the way to their current post, and he had observed the seamen working aloft, putting the sails in their gear and pushing them off the yards, leaving them hanging down ready to set. The captain and his officers had been walking the weather deck, likely checking in with the bos’n and carpenter to assure the supplies essential for repairs had been loaded. Robbie had overseen the same procedures many times.

  Nash followed Robbie’s gaze. “Captain Gower must be pleased with these westerlies blowing offshore. ’Twill make his departure from Arbroath a smooth one.” Then with a stern look, he added, “It’s not too late to turn back, Robbie. I wish you would. If we have to tell a lie, let it be to Sidmouth, not our family and friends.”

  Robbie never replied for, in the distance, he saw a group of men emerge from an alley close to the harbor. “Damn! They have taken a different route.” To the five men, a sixth had been added, a gentleman by the look of him. Kinloch had foregone his odd hat for what looked to be a gentleman’s wig. They moved toward the quay at a leisurely pace, perhaps so as not to draw attention. “We must be quick!”

  Robbie took off at a run, Nash on his heels. Fifteen feet from the men, Robbie slowed.

  The men turned at their approach.

  “George Kinloch!” Robbie shouted, “Halt in the name of the Crown!”

  The guards placed themselves in front of Kinloch and the other gentleman.

 
; Robbie pulled his pistol, intending to fire a warning shot.

  “Robbie, no!” Nash shouted. “Let him go!”

  The blond they knew as Lachy raised a pistol and smirked. “I’ll no be askin’ agin, Englishmon. Drap yer pistol!”

  Robbie held his pistol steady, focusing his eyes on the space a foot above Lachy’s head. Before he could fire, Nash yanked his arm to the side. Robbie’s pistol shot a burst of flame and smoke as the ball went wild.

  Robbie bit out an oath. “I wasn’t going to shoot him.”

  Ahead of them, Kinloch shouted, “No!”

  Lachy fired his pistol, which spewed fire and smoke into the air.

  Searing pain shot through Robbie’s head as stars appeared before his eyes just before his vision went black.

  Splattered with his brother’s blood, Nash dropped to the pavement beside Robbie, staring at the fountain of red flowing from his head to pool on the ground. “Oh God, Robbie!”

  The muffled sound of boots approaching made him look up, but the tears streaming from his eyes blurred the image. “Physician! I need a physician!”

  “Ye’ll miss yer boat Kinloch if ye dinna go now!” said a heavily-accented voice.

  Nash wiped the tears from his eyes to see George Kinloch bending over him, his guards pulling on him, urging him away.

  “I’ll not leave a man to die on my account,” Kinloch said, shaking off their hands and returning his attention to Robbie’s still form.

  “Go!” Nash shouted. “Go, while you can.”

  “I cannot leave you alone. Let me at least summon a physician.”

  “Go,” said a familiar voice from behind Nash. Ailie. “I will get one for him.”

  “I am sorry,” Kinloch lamented. “Truly I am. I will pray the wound is not fatal.”

  Prevailing over the objections of their charge, Kinloch’s guards swept him across the street and to the waiting ship.