by Pamela Clare
Morgan studied each item, trying not to show his surprise when he saw that the brooch cost five pounds. He could buy a fine sword with that sum. And as he gazed at the polished silver and glittering garnets, he knew that none of these fine things would matter to Amalie. "My wife cares not at all for such finery — nor can I be spendin’ quite such a sum. I’ve at most a shilling fifteen in my purse."
His stomach sank. There was naught for Amalie here.
Then his gaze fell on a pair of combs. They seemed to be made of polished bone, tiny flowers and leaves carved out of the fan-shaped handles. An image came into his mind of Amalie brushing her dark hair, piling it atop her head, and holding it in place with these combs. "May I see those?"
He knew they were most certainly beyond what he could afford, but the image in his mind remained.
"Certainly." The matron placed them on the wooden counter before Morgan. "They are carved from ivory and were bought from the wife of a captain who sails with the East India Company. He acquired them for her on his travels."
They were beautiful, delicate, much more modest than the locket or the jeweled brooch. "These are lovely, but surely they are beyond my means."
"These combs are just the price you were seeking," the matron said, removing a small slip of paper from the back of one of the combs and crumpling it in her fingers. "They are one shilling ten."
"One shilling ten?" A good musket, a knife, a bottle of rum — those prices he knew well, but the cost of jewelry or ivory combs? He grinned, thrust his hand into his pocket, seeking his coin purse. "I’d be most grateful if you could wrap those, madam. Och, they will look bonnie in my wife’s hair."
He left the merchant ten minutes later, the combs safe in a bag of crimson velvet and tucked deeply in his pocket. He was so pleased with his purchase that he didn’t notice how the matron watched him from the store window, a smile on her face, a wistful look in her eyes.
CHAPTER 4
Iain stood with his brothers outside Haviland’s study, his temper growing darker by the moment. "He bade us be here at ten," he said to his brothers in Gaelic. "’Tis now past eleven, and still he refuses to admit us."
"It pleases him to make us wait." Connor leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. "The man is a neach dìolain."
A true bastard.
"Aye, that he is."
Iain strode to the window, looked out on the parade ground. A party of Indians — Mohawk traders by the look of them — came to the gates of the fort, but were turned away. Two errand boys stood close beside the blacksmith’s shop, no doubt trying to keep warm. Redcoats walked here and there, huddled in their winter coats. Many of them would be returning to war soon, for although the peace was won here in the Colonies, the war between France and England and their allies was not over.
Iain thanked God every day that he and his brothers were out of the fray — and had survived. So many good men had not.
Time dragged on slowly until it was almost the noon hour and Iain’s stomach began to complain. Then the door opened.
A young lieutenant appeared. "Brigadier General Haviland will see you now."
"Is that so? Och, well, we wouldna want to keep Haviland waitin’, now would we boys?" Iain started forward.
The lieutenant blocked his path, holding out his hand. "I have orders that you are not to enter armed. You must leave your weapons here."
Iain’s already bad temper flashed hot. "Does he mean to insult us? We fought wi’ him this past summer, and now he treats us as enemies?"
Fear passed over the lad’s face. "I…I know only that I have been told not to let you enter still armed."
"I dinnae like the feel of this." Iain spoke in Gaelic and knew his brothers shared his misgivings. Then he switched to English again and made a show of conceding. "Och, for Satan! Very well."
He dropped his tumpline pack, drew out his sword and hunting knife and piled them, together with his musket and pistol, in the surprised lieutenant’s arms. Following his example, Morgan and Connor did the same, until the lad was weighed down by heavy steel. But Iain did not hand over the knife he kept secreted inside his leggings, nor did his brothers reveal theirs.
If Haviland tried to detain them...
Iain pushed past the lieutenant and walked down the hallway, Connor’s voice following him.
"I dinnae ken what Haviland seeks to gain from this. If we had a mind to go after him wi’ our blades, lad, neither you nor a dozen like you could stop us. Mind how you hold that, aye? Are you tryin’ to cut off a finger?"
They walked down the hallway toward another closed door where two more redcoats stood guard. One of them turned, opened the door, bowed. "They are here, sir."
Iain entered to find Haviland sitting at Wentworth’s old writing table, powdered wig upon his head, his uniform immaculate. He did not stand, but peered at Iain and his brothers through narrowed eyes, disdain on his face. "You wished to see me, MacKinnon? What is it you want?"
Iain had never been one for pleasantries and was glad to get to the heart of the matter. "The men have no’ been paid what they’re owed for this past summer’s campaigns."
’Twas strange to see another sitting in the position Wentworth had once held — and even stranger for Iain to find himself wishing that the man before him were Wentworth. He didn’t trust Haviland.
"You speak of your Rangers?" Haviland’s voice held a note of contempt.
"Aye. They’ve no’ been paid for their service."
Haviland looked confused. "But why come to me?"
Was the man a simpleton?
"You’ve taken Wentworth’s command, aye?" Iain asked. "Payin’ the Rangers fell to him according to our arrangement. Now that task falls to you."
"I am aware of no such arrangement. Do you have proof of this?"
Iain looked over at his brothers, saw the disbelief he felt mirrored on their faces. "’Twas a gentleman’s agreement, each of us givin’ and keepin’ our word. Surely, there must be records, ledgers, an accountin’ of what was paid—"
"I’ve seen no ledgers, nor did I read anything in Brigadier General Wentworth’s records about paying your Rangers."
Iain knew Haviland was lying.
But why?
Iain fought to keep his temper in check. "The officers who served under him can attest that I speak the truth."
"Most of his officers were slain, as I’m sure you know." Haviland flicked a lacy wrist, glanced at his well-shaped nails. "Some are no doubt still in New York at Fort Edward. Others are on their way back to London."
"The men who fought as Rangers — they are good men, men with wives and bairns, men who risked their lives for five long years, sufferin’ deprivations you cannae imagine. And now, after the Rangers helped Britain win this victory, you prepare for your Christmas feastin’ and deny them their due?"
"The Rangers are known for hitting marks. If they are hungry, let them hunt," Haviland answered, his tone of voice disdainful. "You made it clear more than once that you and your men fought not for the Crown, but for your fellow colonists. I suggest you turn to them if you wish to be paid. If Governor Colden and his council appreciate your services, perhaps they can find the coin."
Connor started forward. "You bloody — "
"Uist!" Iain silenced Connor, held out his arm to stop him. "This arrangement stood through five long years of war. Would you dishonor the reputation of the British Army by breakin’ it now?"
All pretext of politeness disappeared, Haviland’s loathing and resentment clear to see. "The British Army had no need for men such as you. Why Wentworth favored you, I know not, but I will not reward your insolence."
Iain thought carefully about his next words. He could not fail the men, and yet he felt certain that Haviland would not hesitate to throw him and his brothers in the guardhouse if they spoke carelessly. "What if I bring you proof that Wentworth paid the Rangers?"
"If proof exists, I shall be glad to see it, and I should gladly honor the Cro
wn’s obligation."
"Then I shall return tomorrow wi’ proof to satisfy you." He motioned to his brothers. "Come."
He walked down the hallway, his brothers close behind him. Without speaking, they took back their weapons from the lieutenant, who was struggling to set them down without dropping them or cutting himself. Then they stepped outside, cold air hitting Iain full on the face, helping to clear the fog of rage from his mind.
"He’s lyin’!" Connor hissed.
"Aye, he’s lyin’," Morgan agreed. "But how are we to prove that? Do you think the paymaster will take our word over that bastard Haviland’s?"
"There’s but one way to prove what is owed to the men." Iain started toward the fort’s gates. "We must find Wentworth."
* * *
Lord William Wentworth sat beneath thick blankets on a chair before the hearth, trying to doze, his feet propped up on a footstool. Laudanum had left a bitter taste on his tongue, his mouth dry, but at least the pain had diminished. He shivered, drew the blankets tighter about himself, feeling chilled to the bone despite the blazing fire.
His physicians had been right. The long journey from Fort Ticonderoga to Fort Edward and then on to Albany had brought back his fever and, with it, the terrible pain where his wounds had festered.
His eyes drifted shut, oblivion slowly taking him, strains of harpsichord music drifting through his dreams. ’Twas a Christmas carol. He remembered now. Sarah had been playing upon the harpsichord he’d given her, the sweet music filling him with—
A knock woke him.
"My lord, it is I, Cooke. I must speak with you on an urgent matter."
William shivered beneath his blanket, bit back a curse. "Come in."
Behind him, the door opened and closed, letting in a rush of cold air.
Cooke appeared at his side, gave a bow. "My lord, I — "
"Yes, get to it, man!" William ached with weariness.
Cooke frowned. "Your fever has returned. I shall fetch Doctor—"
"No! No." William was tired of doctors and their pitying glances. "I’ve been bled enough. I wish only to sleep. What is it you’ve come to tell me? Speak, and be gone."
"The MacKinnon brothers are in Albany, my lord, and they are looking for you."
William had left the letter and the cracked black king as a way of saying farewell to Lady Anne and to Sarah. He should have thought that would be obvious to them. But the three brothers had tried to follow him that night, calling for him, riding after him in the snow, forcing him and Cooke to drive their mounts hard. Cooke had urged William to stop, to stay the night at the MacKinnon farm, but he had refused.
William did not wish to be seen like this — not by the MacKinnon brothers, not by his niece, not by anyone. That’s why he’d kept to these rooms since arriving in Albany and why Cooke was his only contact with the world beyond these walls.
"Go on."
"I spied them entering The Fife and Drum, the pub frequented by our officers down on the— "
"I am familiar with Albany, Captain."
"I entered behind them, kept to the shadows, and overheard them asking if anyone had seen you. They said that it was essential for them to find you as they needed to speak with you on a matter of great urgency and— "
"They are simply trying to find me, trying to flush me out for Sarah’s sake so that they can bring me back and see what’s become of me. I do not wish to be seen by them, Captain. Do you understand? Are you quite certain they didn’t notice you? For if they did, they’ll simply follow you and…" Some part of William realized that his words were little more than fevered raving. "I need water."
He hated being this weak, helpless like a child.
Captain Cooke immediately poured water for him from a porcelain pitcher and held out a glass. "You should not be alone, my lord."
William drank, the water soothing his parched throat, then set the glass aside. "Did they reveal the nature of this urgent matter? Is my niece…?"
She’d been well and alive a few nights back. She’d recognized the chess piece he’d left on MacKinnon’s doorstep and had run from the house, barefoot and clad only in her shift, crying out for him — proof that she did not hate him despite everything he’d done to keep her and Connor MacKinnon apart.
What if running barefoot in the snow had left her ill?
"I am certain she is well, my lord." Cooke handed him another cup of water. "Knowing you would wish to know their business, I made some inquiries. It seems they have a dispute with Haviland, my lord, and need your help."
CHAPTER 5
Amalie reached out and tied the string she’d bound to the end of the pine garland to the nail Joseph had driven into the wall, hoping it would be strong enough to hold the garland in place. "What do you think?"
Joseph reached up, caught her about the waist, and lowered her to the floor from the chair she’d been standing on, a grin tugging at his lips. "I think it is strange to hang branches from trees inside your home when there is a forest outside your door. If you wish to see trees, why not go outside?"
Amalie couldn’t help but smile. "It is a way of celebrating the season. And the scent of pine — is it not sweet?"
She sniffed the air, loving the freshness.
He grinned. "You can smell pine even better if you go into the forest."
"It is far too cold to spend our days out of doors."
Joseph chuckled, putting the chair back in its place at the table.
She turned slowly, taking in the sight of the sitting room, only the discord between her and Morgan marring the moment. "Bien!"
She, Annie, and Sarah had thrown themselves into preparing for Christmas, first decorating Iain and Annie’s house and then Morgan and Amalie’s. This Christmas would be a happy one, even if their men should find themselves unable to return from Albany in time. The three of them had discussed it at length and had decided that from now on Christmas at the MacKinnon farm would blend together all of their traditions — Catholic and Protestant, Scottish, English, and French.
Pine garlands hung around the doors and windows and above the hearth as had been the custom for Annie’s and Sarah’s families. Advent candles sat in the center of each family’s table, surrounded by wreaths of holly that Sarah had made. Slender tapers of precious beeswax sat in brass holders in the windowsills as they had at the abbey when Amalie was a child.
On Christmas Eve, they would light those candles as a sign of welcome to weary travelers, and they would leave a meal on the table of each cabin. There would be no Mass on Christmas Day, for there was no church or priest, but they would pray together and then feast — roasted turkey and venison with gravy, potatoes, corn bread, and pickled vegetables, with Annie’s shortbread, sugared plums, and apple pies for dessert.
This blending of traditions might not have entirely pleased the mère supérieure, but it brought them all together like the family they had become, starting new traditions that they would pass to their children.
At that thought, Amalie glanced toward the bedroom, where the twins, Lachlan and Connor Joseph, slept, and found herself smiling. Her sons would grow up with something she’d never had — a family, a sense of home.
A thud came from upstairs, followed by Annie and Sarah’s muffled laughter — and a groan from Killy, who had been helping them hang pine garlands.
Joseph called up to them. "Are you all right, old woman?"
"Killy is well," Annie answered, clearly fighting not to laugh. "He stood too near the edge and…fell off the chair."
"I’d best help him before he breaks his neck." A grin on his face, Joseph started up the stairs.
From outside came a man’s voice. "Hallo in the house!"
This was followed by a low bellowing noise.
In a little more than a heartbeat, Killy and Joseph stood together by the front door, muskets in hand.
Joseph looked out the window, his brow bending in a surprised frown. "I see a man with a wagon."
Amalie peeked
outside. A man stood holding the reins of two enormous black draft horses, their traces tied to a farm wagon. "It is Farmer Fairley."
"Oh!"
Amalie turned to find Sarah standing beside Annie at the bottom of the stairs, a shocked expression on her face. Her newborn in her arms, she glanced from Amalie to Annie, then looked over at Joseph and Killy. "Farmer Fairley was supposed to deliver my Christmas gifts to the family, but not until the morning of Christmas Eve."
"It seems Christmas has come early." Killy leaned his musket agains the wall, opened the door, and strode outside, his words drifting back to them. "A good day to you! Killy’s the name. What is it you…"