Unable to speak, Matthew gestured to the crumpled letter on the small table beside him. Mr Drummond, after a worried glance, picked it up and swiftly read it. Matthew watched. He knew it by heart.
Drummond looked up. 'What a tragedy! A skirmish, his officer says. They were crossing a river. It was an ambush, but they all escaped, except John.'
'Why him?' Matthew burst out. 'There could have been others, why my only son?'
*****
Joan Menzies, sitting on the bench outside the kitchen door, as she often did in the sheltered nook where the sun's rays warmed her, watched her niece.
'Your mother's failing from grief, lass,' she said when Catriona eventually turned and came towards her. 'No remedies of ours, or ones the doctors prescribe, can save her.'
Catriona sat beside her. 'What can I do?'
'Pray the good Lord sends your father home, and soon. That's the only remedy that will work. She was always mad for him. Too much passion isn't a good thing, when there's such sorrow too.'
'I can't believe there's any hope left. He's been gone for so long, the ship must have foundered. But there's been no word. If we were still in Aberdeen we might hear news from other ships, they could have seen him somewhere. We don't know where he went, which ports he called at, before he disappeared.'
'And he was finally going to make his fortune with this voyage,' Aunt Joan stated. She'd always been sceptical.
Catriona sighed. 'He left us with enough to live on. But he was always so conscious that – people felt Mother had married beneath her. He wanted this to be his last voyage, and bring back enough to buy her a small estate, so that she could be treated as a lady again.' She glanced up at her aunt and Joan nodded slowly. The girl was sharp, she knew it had been mainly Colin who had regarded her father, a landless sea captain, as unworthy to marry his sister.
Joan tried to be fair. 'He was a good husband to her. But it was folly to fill his only ship with so much of value. He laid himself open to attack, once it became known. And those are the sorts of secrets you cannot hide in a busy seaport.'
'You mean, he might have been followed and deliberately attacked?' Catriona looked aghast. 'Is that what Mother thinks?'
'No, I don't believe the notion has occurred to her. I suggest you don't mention it either.'
'Of course not! But, what does it mean?'
'The trouble is, fortunes are made at sea, through trade rather than piracy. Even if one of your father's former rivals suddenly came into wealth, there would be no way of proving he had not gained it lawfully. There is only one way he might still be alive, but his chances of escape would likely be none, and that life is so terrible it's better if he has been killed.'
'Escape? How? From what? Is there some hope? Nothing is worse than being drowned!'
Joan looked pityingly at her niece. 'There are still pirates who sell their captives as slaves.'
Catriona paled. 'You mean the Barbary pirates?'
'I believe there are some in the China seas, too. Your father often went there, I think. They are probably elsewhere, too.'
'But if he'd been captured, he'd never be set free! That would be dreadful! And we'd never know.'
'So we must hope he had a clean death, child. But there is much you can do to ease her mind. Stay here, don't defy her and your uncle to go wandering on the hills. She worries about your being alone at that wretched bothy. It's unseemly, and could ruin your reputation.'
Catriona nodded. 'Very well. I'll stay here and look after her, of course I will. I want to be with her as much as possible, while she's still here.'
'Good girl. Come, now, let's go in, it's suppertime. You must go to bed early, you need your rest. You sat up for most of last night with your mother.'
Later that night, in bed, Joan told her husband what she'd overheard his sister say.
'Mary wants Thomas for her daughter. She seems to think he favours her.'
'What's that? How ridiculous!'
'I know, and we must stop it before it becomes a possibility.'
Colin snorted and turned over in bed. 'Have you seen any signs of him paying her attentions? I haven't.'
'It won't do.'
'Thomas and a penniless girl who's wild to a fault? Of course it won't do!' Colin said in disdain.
'Mind, if her father had made a huge profit from this voyage, it would be different,' Joan said quietly, though she'd never willingly have accepted Catriona for her son. She had to persuade her husband to agree to her plan. He'd ensure that his sister complied.
'But he hasn't,' Colin said. 'I warned him it was too chancy a venture, but he'd not listen to reason.'
'No, but I've a fancy Thomas is rather taken with her. He comes here more often now, and I think it's to see her. I once thought they were meeting up at that bothy.'
'He knows what's expected of him, as our only son. If he doesn't, he'll lose his allowance!'
'Yes, but the girl might trap him. She's clever, for all her wildness. She's ambitious, like her father. What better for her than to marry a prosperous man? She doesn't meet any others, even if they'd take her without a dowry.'
'Trap him? What do you mean?'
Joan sighed. It sometimes took so long to push an idea into Colin's head. 'The way girls often trap men, accusing him of fathering a child on them.'
'I'd whip her from the house if she dared to make such an accusation against my son!'
'Throw out your niece? If she were carrying Thomas's child? That wouldn't look very charitable.'
'It's our duty to chastise sinners.'
'Thomas might accept it.'
'Of course he wouldn't! He'd deny it!'
'He might. I'm sure he would, Colin, you could force him to, but the scandal would be too much.'
'How can we stop it? You don't think she's already – has already trapped him? The harlot!'
'I don't think it's gone so far as that yet. But it could. There's a better way. We must see her more suitably wed. Mary will agree, she'll see the impossibility of a marriage with Thomas, and be only too thankful to get the girl settled before she dies.'
'Poor Mary. See what comes of unequal matches. Who did you have in mind?'
*****
'I canna afford to work for your wages, Mr Napier,' the man said. 'I'm sorry, ye've always been good to us, but we've another bairn coming, and I need what Mr Mackenzie's offering.'
'I've explained, I'm ready to offer more if you'll do as I suggest,' Rory said patiently.
'It's not just for the weaving, see, he's offering more for my wife's spinning too. And if I refused him, she'd lose that, he wouldn't take on her without me.'
Rory suppressed his anger. It was the same everywhere. That devil Mackenzie had been before him in all the villages where they employed spinners and weavers. Flax was difficult to spin, much more so than cotton or wool. The fibres were brittle and would often break if they were stretched too much. It wasn't easy to find skilled flax spinners to take the places of those Mackenzie enticed away.
'I'll offer more for each piece if you'll try using these blocks to print the linen after it's woven.'
Rory displayed the wooden blocks, which he'd had carved with simple shapes. They had nothing of the lightness and charm of the ones Cat Duncan had shown him, and he wished for both her skill and enthusiasm. These, he was sure, would persuade his workers to try the experiment.
'What would I have to do?'
Rory began to feel more hopeful. At least the man wasn't turning him down without listening.
'I'll send the dyestuff when I send you the thread. It's a simple process, there are the two colours and two blocks. You just press the blocks in the dye, then onto the linen, one after the other, and this pattern is made. Look, I've a sample here.'
The man looked doubtful. 'I'd need more space, a table to spread it out on. And I've only the one room, you see. How long will it take to dry? It's difficult enough now to keep the bairns away from the loom, but I'd be afraid they'd tip the dyes up,
or ruin the fabric. And if it's spoilt you'd not pay me for the work. I'd lose more than I could make extra.'
It was a common problem. The weavers lived in tiny cottages, already cramped for living in as they made space for the looms. Many, he'd noticed, had small palliasses for the children rolled up in a corner, and the only place to put them was beneath the looms when work for the day had finished. There would not be room to leave the linen spread out to dry, and it could not be done outside because of the frequent rain.
Unable to persuade the man Rory remounted Samson and rode on to the next village where two more of his weavers lived. It was a similar story. They wanted to oblige him, he'd been fair to them in the past, but they could earn more from Mackenzie. One, a childless widower, did agree to try the dying process, but in the course of six days Rory found only three men who would agree to experiment.
It was a start, and he began to feel more hopeful. He was greatly indebted to that chance meeting with Catriona Duncan, and he wished he could see her again and thank her. Once the others heard of his success, and he'd been able to sell the printed linen at higher prices, he could pay them more. He'd employed the dyer Joshua had found for him, and the man assured him that the dyes were now fast from the mordants he'd used. There would not be the same problems of colours running into one another, or bleeding away from the edges of the patterns.
Joshua was sceptical, but Rory insisted they were on their way to profitability. With money to spare, they could get the bleaching fields in order, then they would save money on sending linen to Holland.
When the patterned linen came back from the first weaver who'd tried the process they unrolled the piece and inspected it carefully on the big table in Rory's office.
'That looks good,' Rory said, relief in his voice.
'We'll know better when the rest arrive,' Joshua said. 'They were taking longer, it wasn't ready for me to bring.'
They were standing looking down at the fabric when there was a light tap on the door, and it opened.
'May I enter? Mr Napier, I need to speak with you at once.'
Rory nodded, but inwardly he sighed. Was this more trouble? His uncle's lawyer rarely came to the office, and he'd seen him only once since Uncle Matthew had retreated to his Highland home.
'I'll come back,' Joshua said and withdrew.
'Sit down, Mr Drummond. A glass of whisky?'
'Thank you, yes. And you should have one too, Mr Rory. I bring sad news.'
Rory turned from the cupboard, where he was pouring whisky into two glasses. 'Not my uncle? It's not him, is it?'
'No, your uncle was in good health when I left him four days ago. As irascible as ever, of course,' he added caustically.
Rory smiled and handed him a glass, then sat down behind the desk, cradling his own glass. 'When is he anything else? But if it's not him, what bad news can there be?'
The lawyer didn't reply directly. He sipped at the whisky, then nodded in appreciation and took a larger swallow.
'Is that a new departure?' he asked, nodding across at the patterned linen Rory had been examining.
'Yes. You're aware, of course, of Angus Mackenzie's attempts to steal my workers by offering them higher wages. This is one way I hope to prevent him from succeeding.'
Mr Drummond nodded, and drained the glass. He made no protest when Rory refilled it. 'Your uncle had news from India.'
'India?' Rory exclaimed. 'John has written? But he does write, occasionally. Why should that bring you here?'
'No, it was not John. It was his commanding officer. They were caught in an ambush.' He wrinkled his nose in distaste. 'Such an unfortunate way to die.'
'Die? John? You mean my cousin is dead?'
'I fear so. They were crossing some river, it appears, and John was caught in the attack. There were few details, perhaps that was wise. It has hit your uncle hard.'
Rory bowed his head. He and John had never been particular friends, the younger boy had been too jealous of what he called an interloper in his home. Sometimes Rory wondered whether it was his presence that had caused John to run away. But all that was over.
'Poor Uncle Matthew. He must be devastated. Does he want me to go to Braemar?'
'He specifically forbade it. There is no body, and no funeral. He will be coming to Glasgow when he feels ready to make the journey, to discuss matters with you.'
Rory had been trying to take in the fact of his cousin's death, and reckon the probable consequences for himself. 'He will have to find a new manager, I suppose. I told him I would take on the task only until John came home.'
'He wishes you to continue.'
'Of course I will, until he feels able to make new arrangements. But he has always known I intended to start my own business one day, with the money my father left me.'
Mr Drummond coughed. 'No, Mr Napier. He wishes you to stay. Permanently, that is. You see, you are now your uncle's sole heir. He wanted me to draw up a new will for him. One day you will own this business.'
*****
Chapter 4
Braemar looked the same. Morrone Hill shielded the town, the Cluny Burn flowed into the Dee, which swept on, past his uncle's house. And the gaunt pile was still as unwelcoming.
Rory had retraced his previous journey, had even left the path and visited the bothy, but the whole place was deserted. Cat Duncan was not there. Had he hoped to see her? He hardly knew. Catriona's belongings, her fabrics and pots and bottles of dyestuffs, and her blocks, were there, but the place felt unused.
He wondered where she was, where she lived. Yet if they had met, what could he have said? She belonged to this world of rolling hills, steep crags, wide flat tops where the only living beings, apart from the occasional traveller, were birds, deer and rabbits.
She'd mentioned a village nearby, which was probably in the glen, though he hadn't passed one before he left it to climb into the uplands. For a moment he was tempted to go in search of it, but there was no time. He had to go to Uncle Matthew.
As Rory had expected, he was blamed, both for visiting and for his cousin's death.
'It was your fault my John became so obsessed with soldiering!' were Matthew's opening words.
'How so?' Rory asked, startled. 'I came to see how you are, and offer my condolences.'
'I don't want your sympathy!' Matthew grunted. 'If you hadn't always been talking about your father, John would probably never have thought of soldiering.'
'But – we saw soldiers frequently!' Rory protested. 'The English stationed troops here in the Highlands, after the uprising.'
'Yes, and if your father and other hot-headed fools like him hadn't thought they could dislodge German George with a few swords, you'd never have come to live here. You'd still have been at your home in Dundee.'
Rory swallowed his retort. The old man was grieving, and it was pointless to argue with his irrational accusations. He'd rented out the house he'd inherited from his father ever since he'd been sixteen. It was no longer his home.
'I came to see how you are, and report to you on the business,' he said mildly.
'Your business, now.'
'Yes, and I thank you, but I wish it had not happened in this way. You must believe that.'
Matthew shrugged, and glanced up at him from under bushy eyebrows, which looked enormous in his sunken face. 'My only son,' he murmured under his breath. 'I did it all for him.'
Rory privately doubted that, but it would be unkind to say so. Matthew had never paid much attention to him or John, apart from telling them what to do. There might, beneath the crusty exterior, have been softer feelings, but they had never shown themselves in action.
After a few moments of silence Matthew seemed to shake himself. Rory saw a tremble go through him as he sat straighter in the chair, then looked up.
'Well, what disasters have you come to report this time? More losses, no doubt, with your daft experiments? Why don't you forget them and offer for the MacNab chit? That would solve all our problems.'
*****
Silas MacNab glared at Rory. 'You're a fool!' he snorted. 'Why bother with new designs when the plain linen's selling well? I should know, my own business is flourishing.'
'You have different customers, mainly in London. Mine are local, and my linen is not selling as well as Angus Mackenzie's, because he's cut his prices. I can't afford to do that.'
'You'll have to, and the money's there if only you'd see sense. Between us we'll see off that upstart!'
'I won't use your money. There are other ways, which are less risky, and I mean to succeed.'
MacNab frowned, his small eyes almost vanishing into the folds of flesh on his big, round face. He was a tall man, but during the past year or so he had gained weight alarmingly, and his breeches strained over a massive paunch and huge thighs, while his coats, however expertly tailored, did not disguise the mounds of fat on his shoulders and arms. His complexion, always ruddy, had grown darker, and whenever Rory met him he half expected the man to fall down with an apoplectic fit.
He turned abruptly now to demand another bottle of port from the waiter. They were dining at the Saracen's Head in Gallowgate, one of Glasgow's newest and most prestigious hotels, patronised by the wealthy Tobacco Lords and the elite of Glasgow society as well as distinguished visitors. There had been a sudden increase in building and extending hotels to fit with Glasgow's emergence as a major trading centre, hotels able to offer suitable accommodation to visitors. Rory had been suspicious when he had been summoned there.
Matthew, he thought with an inward grin, would never stay at one of them. His uncle resented spending money on unnecessary luxuries, and usually patronised one of the lesser establishments closer to the River Clyde. Silas was quite different. He enjoyed his money, and the feeling of power it gave him.
Though MacNab and Matthew Ogilvie were so different, and had always been rivals in the linen business, they'd also been friends. He knew his uncle and Mr MacNab corresponded regularly, and suspected that Matthew had poured out all his frustrations to his old friend.
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