Change Of Plan
“’Tis a victory,” Jewel insisted to Gray after the rest of the family left the dining hall.
“Of sorts,” he retorted. “Ye didna get everything ye wanted—for a change.”
She lifted her chin. “Edinburgh is better than no adventure at all. If ye dinna agree, I’ll get someone else to accompany me.”
He scoffed. “Like who?”
She punched his shoulder. “Do ye want to come with me to Edinburgh, or nay?”
“Of course I do,” he replied, “though I admit I’m sorry Papa stood firm and willna allow a foray into the Highlands.”
Jewel sighed. “Mayhap one day.”
He shook his head. “Nay, our parents will expect ye to wed once we return.”
She inhaled deeply, recognizing the truth of his words.
He winked. “The only way ye’ll get to visit the Highlands is if ye marry a Highland laddie.”
She punched him again, harder. “Never in a thousand years.”
“Ouch,” he complained, rubbing his arm. “What’s amiss with Highlanders? Our escort will consist of a dozen. Grand-uncle commanded a whole army of them in the fight against Cromwell.”
“Murtagh and his pals are ancient,” she retorted. “Papa has given them leave to journey on to the Highlands, if they wish. ’Tisna likely we’ll meet Highlanders in Edinburgh if we’re lodging with Mama’s relatives.”
“Aye,” her brother agreed. “Doesna sound like Hiram Donaldson will be much fun. He’s a year or two older than our parents, but his daughter Beatris has apparently married well. While we’re there, ye can learn how to take care of bairns,” he teased. “She has three.”
Jewel scowled, tempted to strike him again. “I intend to spend my time seeing the sights in Edinburgh, nay tending wee ones.”
She chafed as weeks of discussions about the preparations dragged on. She’d envisioned traveling to Edinburgh in her father’s carriage, but Murtagh quickly put paid to that idea. “Ye’ll nay get e’en as far as Glasgow,” he insisted.
Since the man had spent years criss-crossing Scotland in fair weather and foul with her great-uncle, she had no choice but to heed his advice.
No carriage meant going on horseback. She was a capable rider, but the farthest she’d ever ridden was around the estate and occasionally into Kilmarnock.
It was Murtagh who proposed she dress as a lad. “Fer yer own safety, lass,” he declared.
No decent woman wore men’s clothing to tour Edinburgh, but her protests that she’d have to wear trouzes fell on deaf ears.
“Cousin Hiram is a cloth merchant,” her mother reminded her. “He mentions in his letter of reply that ye needn’t worry about clothing. Nay doot Beatris has a large selection of gowns for ye to borrow.”
The prospect of wearing someone else’s frocks wasn’t appealing, but the seamstress was tasked with fashioning trouzes suitable for a lady. Once she practiced riding astride in them, Jewel couldn’t understand why women didn’t always wear trouzes.
Munro’s wife suggested she and Gray both wear the flat, beret-style hat worn by many apprentices. Jewel had to admit she did look like a lad with her hair tucked up inside the roomy headgear. “Folk will mistake us for twin boys,” she quipped to Gray.
He chuckled. “Mayhap, if ye do something about yer tits.”
Tight bindings solved that problem.
Her new wardrobe simplified the matter of what to take in the one satchel Murtagh allowed. “We canna be bogged down wi’ trunks,” he declared.
When she complained about the length of time spent on preparations, Murtagh sighed. “Do ye wish to travel in snow drifts with east winds freezin’ yer ears?”
She muttered her disbelief there could still be snow on the ground in May, but avoided answering back directly. Murtagh had served the family for twenty years and, as far as Morgan Pendray was concerned, the man could do no wrong. Of course, the blacksmith had saved her father’s life by successfully amputating a mangled finger years ago during the rebellion. Along with many of his comrades, he had stayed on at Kilmer after the death of Great-Uncle Munro Cunynghame.
Finally, on a sunny June day, Jewel stepped out of the house where she’d been born and surveyed the cavalcade preparing to depart. Murtagh had selected men and horses he deemed fit for the journey. There was an unmistakable buzz of excitement among the Highlanders who normally wore plaids and great kilts only at Yuletide and other special occasions.
She had spent a fortnight choosing and rejecting the contents of her bag with the assistance of her lady’s maid. After helping her mistress sling the satchel across her body, Sissy rushed away in tears. The lump in Jewel’s throat tightened further when she saw her family assembled in the courtyard ready to see her and Gray off.
It was peculiar. She’d looked forward impatiently to this day, but suddenly wasn’t sure she wanted to go.
Her older brother came to her rescue. “Take good care of Gray,” Munro said, hugging her tightly.
“I will,” she replied in a husky voice she didn’t recognize.
“I’d show ye all the places of interest I recall from my days at university—if I was coming with ye.”
Jewel patted Sarah’s rounding belly. “I think yer wife takes precedence.”
Munro then shook hands with Gray. “We’re trusting ye with our precious Jewel,” he quipped.
She didn’t hear her younger brother’s reply when Sarah kissed her on each cheek and whispered, “Be careful.”
Her parents tried valiantly not to show their emotions, but the smile plastered on Hannah Pendray’s face was painfully false. “Dinna fash,” Jewel told them after the hugging finally stopped. “We’ll be back afore ye realize we’re gone.”
With a grunt, her father went to say farewell to Murtagh and his comrades. They’d been through a lot together during the Rebellion and she knew the parting would be hard on all of them.
Gray helped Jewel mount Scepter. That was one argument she had managed to win. Murtagh deemed her gelding too soft, but she knew he had the heart of a stallion.
Her brother mounted Crown and the odyssey began. They didn’t exchange a word, but she was glad he rode at her side.
It was tempting to look back over her shoulder as they left the estate, but then the tears would flow again.
Roughing It
Loath as he was to set foot on another boat, Garnet agreed with Donald’s proposal they journey north to Arbroath by sea, and thence westward overland to Blairgowrie. “Fife is reportedly in turmoil,” his friend told him upon returning to the docks from a meeting with persons unknown. “After the assassination of Archbishop Sharp and the death of Richard Cameron, tension is running high between Covenanters and Episcopalians.”
“Cameron was from Fife?” Garnet asked.
“Aye. Fàclann.”
“So, when do we sail?”
Donald avoided his gaze, holding tightly to the satchel he never let out of his sight. “Therein lies the problem. The galley has to be full, or the captain willna undertake the trip. At the moment, there’s only ye and me.”
Garnet rolled his eyes. “It could be weeks. What do we do in the meanwhile?”
“Be patient, my friend. Richard Cameron’s brother lives in Edinburgh. Michael married the daughter of a wealthy burgess. We’ll be welcome there, and he’ll find the funds for our passage.”
Evidently, the voyage from Rotterdam had consumed Donald’s resources, but Garnet could hardly make a fuss about that. If he went home by land, he’d be obliged to borrow the money for a decent horse.
Donald rubbed his hands together. “’Twill give me a chance to preach at conventicles in the area.”
That sounded too much like bearding the dragon. “In Edinburgh?”
“And environs. We’ll go to Rullion Green and preach about that unholy massacre fifteen years ago. We must rekindle the spirit of rebellion.”
Garnet thought to protest his apparent inclusion in the plan, b
ut instead asked, “How far is it?”
Donald shrugged. “About a ten mile walk south of the town.” He slung his pack onto his shoulder. “Come on, Michael’s waiting at the end of the dock.”
Garnet had no choice but to follow. At least, he’d have a place to lay his head without worrying about being arrested in the middle of the night.
He assumed the man waiting at the end of the dock was Michael Cameron. Given the family history, he’d expected a giant. The balding zealot barely came up to his shoulders. “Is it appropriate to offer condolences?” he asked as they approached.
Donald shook his head. “He doesna wish to speak of his brother’s death, nor of the fact Richard’s head is on public display here in Edinburgh. Dinna even look at it when we come to the Flodden Wall and pass through the Netherbow Port.”
Garnet’s belly roiled with memories of heads on pikestaffs in Amsterdam. He sympathized with Michael’s anger. His own parents had never uttered a word about the injustice inflicted on the Barclay family. However, unspoken resentment had a way of eating at a person’s soul.
Donald offered no introduction, so Garnet smiled and proffered a hand. “Barclay. From Blairgowrie.”
“I ken,” Michael replied, eyeing Garnet’s well-worn Dutch overcoat and Puritan-style hat with a glowering frown. “Best we nay linger.”
Garnet withdrew his hand and glanced about warily. The notion they were perhaps being watched raised gooseflesh on his nape. He thought he’d be free of that fear once he reached Scotland.
Cameron strode off with surprisingly long strides for a small man and it soon became apparent they’d be walking uphill to wherever they were going.
Garnet made a show of studying the dusty pathway when Michael finally led them through the Netherbow gate into the town, snarling at passers-by gawking at his brother’s severed head.
It wasn’t long before they found themselves in narrow, crowded streets. Garnet craned his neck to look up at the tallest houses he had ever seen. “They must be eleven or twelve stories,” he declared, peering into the narrow alleys between buildings where the rooftops almost touched. He fervently hoped Cameron didn’t live atop one of these human anthills that resembled upright streets teeming with humanity.
“Some are higher,” Donald replied. “Seventeen stories.”
“Too many people,” Cameron growled. “Nay enough land.”
Sidestepping pools of murky water, Garnet wrinkled his nose, awash in nostalgia for the fresh air of Blairgowrie and vistas of the distant Grampians. He was glad when Michael called a halt in front of a substantial, two-story stone house with a round, turreted tower built into one corner.
Garnet put down his satchel and swiped a sleeve across his brow. “’Twas quite a trek,” he panted. “But I’ve found my land legs.”
Cameron scowled, pointing to the lintel over the door. “All My Hope Is In Ye, Lord,” he read.
Chastened, Garnet assumed a sterner demeanor, picked up his bag and followed his host into the dark hallway of the house.
As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he realized a tall, sour-faced woman was beckoning them to the stairs. Her grey frock blended with the grey walls. She was reed-thin, but it was impossible to discern her age or even see her face clearly under the brim of a starched bonnet. He assumed she was Michael’s wife, though they seemed a mismatched pair.
Again, no introductions were offered. The lack of courtesy bothered him. “Barclay, from Blairgowrie,” he said to her back as they climbed.
No reply was forthcoming, but he wondered if the creaking steps had drowned out his words, so he tried again. “’Tis my first time in Edinburgh. I thank ye for yer hospitality, Mrs. Cameron.”
She shoved open a small door and stepped aside. “Dire times,” she muttered.
The room was spartan. Apparently, he and Donald were expected to share one narrow cot. He’d likely end up on the floor. Daydreams of a good night’s sleep blew away like chaff on the wind. However, the place was immaculately clean. He doubted vermin would dare venture into this household. They’d been provided with a wash bowl and ewer, though there was no towel in evidence—nor any chest or armoire where such might be stored. He deemed it wise not to inquire about a much-needed bath.
“Pump’s in the yard,” the still unsmiling Mrs. Cameron informed them before descending the stairs.
For all his mother’s stern demeanor, she would never have greeted a guest so poorly. He’d be luxuriating in a hot bath within a half hour of arriving home. That was the accepted way in the Highlands.
He threw his satchel to the floor, dismayed that home seemed further away than ever. “Ye can have the bed,” he told Donald.
“We’ll take turns,” his friend replied.
It was generous, considering Cahill had footed the bill for his journey. He picked up the empty ewer. “I’ll fill this in the yard.”
He made his way downstairs and through the eerily quiet house. His assumption the Camerons were childless was proven false when he reached the kitchen. Four lasses of varying heights, all dressed in sober, grey frocks, assisted their mother. The eldest looked about fourteen, the youngest five. There was none of the chatter he remembered from his mother’s kitchen. Nor did the bairns acknowledge his cheery hello.
Once outside, he filled his lungs. The Cameron household might be a joyless place, but the grassy yard was spacious, the air fresh, and the neighborhood obviously more affluent than the vertical streets he’d passed. He looked up at the castle beyond the meadows as he primed the pump.
Water splashed over his boots when an ear-piercing scream startled him. His annoyance turned to a smile as three wee lasses ran into the yard, chasing each other. It was as if the breeze had blown white-clad fairies into the yard. Puzzled, he looked back at the part of the house from which they’d emerged, realizing one dwelling was actually two. His curiosity about the family that lived in the other half increased when a fresh-faced young woman hurried out in pursuit. She stopped abruptly when she saw him.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, proffering a hand. “Beatris Guthrie. I’m afraid my girls are disturbing ye.”
“Not at all,” he replied, wiping his hands on his breeches before planting a courtly kiss on her knuckles. “Garnet Barclay, from Blairgowrie. I was just…”
“Come along, Meaghan,” she admonished. “Ye and yer sisters are being a nuisance. We have much to do in preparation for our visitors.”
Still giggling, the magical trio ceased their antics and followed their mother back into the house.
He stared at the open door, tamping down the lunatic urge to ask if he could lodge with them instead of the Camerons. Whoever the visitors to the Guthrie household were, he’d wager they were in for some warm hospitality.
Safety In Numbers
In the course of the long journey to Whitehall the previous year, it had become obvious as soon as the Pendray family reached Carlisle that the roads in England were superior to those in Scotland.
However, Jewel wasn’t prepared for what amounted to no roads at all as they journeyed eastward from Kilmer. “They’re just rutted cart tracks,” she remarked to Gray when they stopped to water the horses. “I thought this was the main thoroughfare for merchants from Glasgow to Edinburgh since medieval times.”
“Aye,” he replied, “but the tradesmen probably use the routes in the summer then winter claims them back.”
She rubbed her stiff thigh muscles. “Murtagh insists we’ll see snow, but I canna credit it.”
Gray shrugged. “The mon has traveled this way many times, and ’tis colder now than when we left home.”
Jewel tapped a finger to her lip when their guide approached and handed each of them a small packet wrapped in muslin. “Victuals,” he said gruffly before settling on a camp stool.
She untied the knot atop the bundle. “I half expected him to make a comment about…Crivens! Fresh bread and smoked ham. I’m ravenous.”
Gray bit into his food. “Del
icious,” he declared with his mouth full. “Ye’re a resourceful fellow, Murtagh.”
Swallowing a mouthful, Jewel inhaled deeply. “The fresh air has made us hungry.” The air did smell different—crisper. “’Tis a magnificent country,” she said before taking another bite.
“Ye’ve seen naught yet,” Murtagh claimed.
They rode for another hour before setting up camp. Jewel had been nervous about sleeping under the stars, but agreed it was safer than venturing into local inns. “We should offer to help,” she told Gray as the Highlanders began pitching tents and lighting fires.
“They’ll nay thank ye for it,” he replied.
In the event, the camp was made ready with astonishing speed. Clearly, the escort was comprised of men who knew how to survive in the wilderness. “I suppose I shouldna be surprised,” she admitted. “They more or less run Kilmer.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “Hopefully, some will decide to return with us.”
Two hours later, she and her brother lay side by side in their cozy tent, swathed in furs, their bellies full of hare snared and roasted by Murtagh—cook, blacksmith and jack of all trades.
She offered up a silent prayer of thanks for the gruff Highlander and fell asleep listening to frogs croaking in a nearby pond.
Contrary to her expectations, she slept soundly in the tent. Gray was still snoring as she got up the next morning, wrapped herself in furs and ventured to the flap. “Come on, brother. Something smells good.”
“Pin up yer hair and put yer hat on before ye venture outside,” he advised with a yawn.
She hesitated. “’Tisna necessary until we get underway.”
Jock the Saddler appeared out of the morning mist. “We’ve visitors,” he said hoarsely. “Itinerant sutlers.”
Gray arched his brows. “Told ye.”
Rolling her eyes, Jewel tucked up her curls and reached for the hat. “Do ye recall mama’s tales of sleeping in a sutler’s wagon during the rebellion?”
Highland Jewel (The House of Pendray Book 3) Page 2