“But I’m not just any friend.”
“That you aren’t,” Harry agreed, “which is all the more reason I should decline. I like you, Monty. Maclean’s widow will like you as well, in fact more so. Be yourself, be kind, be attentive, and she will be yours.”
“I’m tongue-tied around her,” Monty lamented. “You don’t have to do much. Just go to the dance with me. Be there for support.”
“Monty, I can’t stay here that long—”
“It’s in four days—”
“My brother is dying. I can’t stay. My quest is for an end to this curse. Once I’ve found what I’m looking for, I’ll return to Glenfinnan and go to however many dances you wish and talk to any number of women. But right now, I can’t, sir, and I beg of you to understand.”
The general’s back stiffened. He would not meet Harry’s eye as he said, “Have it your way then. I shall wait. I’ve waited decades already.”
The pronouncement ended dinner. Harry’s appetite had left him. He did not like disappointing an old friend. Then again, he didn’t understand all this nonsense over a woman. He rose from the table. “I value our friendship,” he said. “I have always respected you when under your command. I apologize, Monty, but my brother’s life is a higher priority.” ’
“Of course it is,” Monty said. “I understand. I’m just—” He broke off as if words failed him. He attempted to smile. It was a pathetic thing.
“Do you know your Shakespeare, Monty? ‘Love is merely a madness, and I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do,’ ” Harry quoted.
“Yes, she makes me mad. But it is my own fear that disturbs me. I would rather face French cannon than make a fool of myself in front of her.”
“You can’t make a fool of yourself in front of a good woman,” Harry said. “They are the kindest of creatures and amazingly forgiving.”
“She’s all I’ve ever wanted, Chattan. I fear the risk of losing any contact with her.”
Harry studied his friend. The man appeared done up, and yet Harry could have sympathy only to a point. He rose from the table. “I shall return and help you, but I must go.”
However, before Harry could leave, a servant entered the room carrying a silver salver bearing a letter. “Colonel Chattan, we found this on the front step. It is addressed to you.”
“Left on the front step?” Monty said. “Did they knock on the door? The dogs didn’t make a sound.”
“They were all in here, sir,” the servant said. “You know how they are during the dinner hour. And we didn’t hear a sound from outside. It was by chance we looked outside and found the letter.”
Harry took the letter. It was addressed to “Chattan.” The stationery was thin and cheaply made. He broke the wax seal, unfolded the letter, and what he read changed everything:
Meet me at the Great Oak, tomorrow, midnight.
Fenella
Chapter Three
Becoming a witch was no easy trick.
Portia obviously couldn’t dress as herself. She would not want that scowling Englishman to know who she was. She also needed to convince him she was a witch—but how did a witch look?
She could wear rags like Crazy Lizzy did, but she decided she didn’t want to be that sort of witch. And she knew she would have to do something to hide her face.
After finishing her tasks around the house, she disappeared to her room to give proper consideration to her costume. She had excuses ready in case her mother or Minnie asked questions, but they weren’t necessary. Her mother had deemed today would be one of “those” days, which meant she would not come downstairs at all.
And Minnie was still mourning the loss of Mr. Tolliver. She had cared deeply for the man. Portia had tried to buoy her spirits the night before but her sister was disconsolate.
“You will see him at the Christmas Assembly,” Portia had said. The desired invitation had finally arrived the evening before and their mother had been very pleased after remarking on the poor form in delivering invitations at such a late date. Apparently, the kirk committee had a bit of a spat, so all the invitations had been late. Most in the valley assumed they would be invited, so for most the lateness didn’t matter.
Not so Lady Maclean.
However, now she was happy and insisting that Minnie would be the belle of the ball.
Portia hadn’t involved herself in their discussion. She was too busy plotting how to be a witch. But she had taken advantage of the messenger and had asked him to deliver “Fenella’s” letter to General Montheath’s residence. The lad had been happy to comply for a small coin and even pleased to be sworn to secrecy.
Over supper, Portia smiled at Minnie. “With this invitation, you now have the opportunity to talk to Mr. Tolliver and explain that Mother does not speak for you.”
“Shouldn’t he know for himself?” Minnie asked. “Shouldn’t he have cared enough for my opinion to speak to me himself and express his concerns?”
Portia didn’t know what to say to those charges, and her silence was damning.
“I don’t want a man in my life who is like Papa,” Minnie said. “He treated Mother as if she was just a chair in the dining room. I expect far more respect.” With that very sage declaration, Minnie left their table. When Portia went up to her room, she heard crying as she passed her sister’s door.
Was it any wonder then that Portia threw herself into becoming a witch?
With the money she received from the English Chattan, they could even return to London, although Portia would resist the idea, or they could provide a handsome dowry for Minnie that would make Mr. Tolliver wish that he had been more steadfast. So becoming a convincing witch, or at least one worth three hundred pounds, was very important.
Owl helped. The cat lay on her bed and served as an audience as Portia tried on one outfit after another.
Since she didn’t want to be an ugly witch, she decided to consider the classics she loved so much.
There was Medusa with a head full of snakes. No thank you.
Cicero, the beautiful temptress who turned Ulysses’ men into swine. As appealing as it would be to turn this Englishman into a stout pig, Portia didn’t see herself as a temptress.
Finally, she decided to design a wood sprite theme. She took an old work dress in brown sacking and stitched holly branches to the skirt. The sharp points of the leaves made the dress prickly and the material heavy, but Portia was willing to sacrifice her comfort.
A visit up to the attic yielded a swath of old, musty plaid that Portia threw around her shoulders. No one would expect to see her in plaid. She was too English.
However, her true find in the attic was a monstrous, wide-brimmed hat woven of straw. Portia adored it. She bent the brim so that it would hide her face and decorated the crown with some of the plaid and more holly.
Gazing at her image in the mirror, she thought the effect quite stunning.
“What do you think, Owl?” she asked as she twirled herself around.
Owl’s response was to jump down from the bed and rub herself against Portia’s leg, purring.
Changing out of the prickly dress, Portia sat down on the floor, pulling the cat in her lap. “All right. Now for a spell.” She reached under the bed and brought out Fenella’s book. “The man is looking for a spell to break a curse, Owl. There must be something in here that I can say and earn the money with some honesty.”
The cat didn’t respond but curled up in her lap and went to sleep, one eye opening from time to time to check on Portia.
For the next hour, she studied the book—and found nothing. There weren’t even curses in the book.
But there was one strange little recitation for removing all obstacles. The instructions said it had to be recited five times. “Power of All Beings abound,” Portia read aloud. “Clear my path that I may walk, Clear my ey
e that I may see, Depart all that would stop me from being free.”
She frowned, scratching a place on her neck where the holly leaf had pricked her. “That doesn’t sound witchy.” She set Owl aside and came to her feet. She crossed to the mirror above her chest of drawers and said the curse again, holding the heavy book with one hand.
No, this wasn’t working.
Portia set the book on the wardrobe and practiced being a witch. She tried different voices and postures. She worked at keeping her hat low over her face while raising her arms and calling out, “Power of All Beings,” to dramatize the spell.
Eventually, she reached the point where she could repeat the poem and not feel silly. In fact, she was rather proud of her witch.
Darkness fell early this time of year. Portia carefully tucked the hat inside a black cloth bag she’d used whenever her family moved. Her plan was to steal out of the house as Portia but change in the woods once she’d reached the Great Oak, a landmark many knew located deep in the forest.
Satisfied she had done all she could, she went downstairs for dinner, only to learn from Glennis that her mother had already received her supper tray and that Minnie had said she was too indisposed to eat.
“Poor thing, she truly cared for Mr. Tolliver. She isn’t taking the new information we heard very well,” Glennis said in her soft brogue. She was of Portia’s age with a head of red, curly hair and sky blue eyes. They were in the kitchen with only their candles and the hearth for light. It was a cozy atmosphere and one for confidences.
“What new information?” Portia asked, wanting to know what Glennis knew.
“About Mr. Tolliver,” Glennis said. “He’s been keeping company with a lass in Fort William.” She set a plate of stew on the table for Portia.
“What?” Portia was shocked. How do you know this?”
“My aunt is his housekeeper. She said he’s been traveling to Fort William several times a week since last he called on Miss Minnie. He always bathes and dresses well before he goes.”
Portia had to close her mouth that had dropped open. “Why, that ugly toad,” she said, the words spilling out of her. “How dare he treat my sister that way.”
“We’d all thought she’d sent him away,” Glennis said. “But when I saw her this afternoon, I realized it couldn’t be true.”
“Her affections were firm,” Portia said, stoutly defending her sister. She took her seat in front of her dish of stew. “Mother interfered and I believe she said some things to Mr. Tolliver that were not true—however, I am shocked that he has changed his heart so quickly.” Were all men the same? Were they all like her father? “When I hear of how shallow men are, I am thankful I am on the shelf.”
“They are not all that way,” Glennis said, drying her hands on the apron over her skirt. “My Jamie is a good man and a fine husband.”
“Well, you must have the only one,” Portia said, picking up her fork. She needed to eat so that she had her strength for traipsing around the woods. “This is not the first gentleman Minnie has placed her trust in and been disappointed. There was a young man in London who disappeared after Father died and he discovered the severity of our circumstances.” She didn’t shy from speaking this way in front of Glennis. She owed the maid back wages, which she was determined to pay, and so they had already shared a blunt, difficult conversation.
“The heart doesn’t know defeat,” Glennis said. “Hers will love again. And you may fall in love yourself, miss.”
Portia shook her head. “I’ve yet to meet a man who made me feel ‘love.’ Then again, I am not a giddy creature. I’ve met handsome men, but never one who has touched my heart. And I’m of an independent spirit,” she announced. “I don’t think I was meant to marry.”
“But aren’t you ever lonely?” Glennis asked.
“No,” Portia answered, a touch too quickly. Loneliness was not something she could let herself dwell upon. “I have responsibilities and a busy life. I haven’t time to be lonely.”
“But don’t you yearn for a man you can lean on?”
Portia thought of her father. “A man is the last person I would lean on.”
“What of children, Miss Portia? Don’t you want them?”
That question was too personal. Too frank. Portia rose from the stool. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t think on it often.”
“I think about it every day,” Glennis said, picking up Portia’s dish and tossing the contents into a bin. She scooped sand from another bin and scrubbed the dish with it. “Jamie and I want wee ones, but we haven’t been blessed yet.”
“Well, I’ve not felt that yearning,” Portia said.
“Sure you have,” Glennis answered. “Every woman has it.”
Portia shook her head, but didn’t speak. How could one explain to a person as blissfully happy as Glennis that not all lives were uncomplicated? That Minnie might search for love, but Portia didn’t believe in it. She couldn’t after watching her parents’ marriage. It had been a sham. Her father hadn’t given a care for any of them. Minnie didn’t truly remember a time when he’d been around, but Portia did. He’d been more of a visitor than a family member.
And Portia had spent too many years scrambling to make ends meet when he’d not send money to support them to have any respect for his memory. She was better off alone, although there were times she wished she wasn’t so alone.
Then again, one couldn’t be hurt when one was alone.
This was not something spoken of to the cook.
“Good night, Glennis,” Portia said instead, and picked up her candle.
“Sleep well, Miss Portia. I shall see you in the morning.”
“Yes, thank you,” Portia said, and escaped to her room.
The house was dark and quiet, and Portia was too nervous to sit and wait passively for the clock to move forward.
Reasoning she wanted to arrive at the oak early to don her costume and see that all was as she wished it, she put on her dress of holly leaves, covering it from prying eyes with her heavy wool cloak. She drew on her gloves and raised the cloak’s ample hood over her head to hide her face. Picking up her bag stuffed with her hat and plaid, she left the house.
She worked in the barn every night after dark but she’d never left the property. It was a brave thing she was doing, going out on her own into the night, and an exciting one. She still wore her spectacles although she fully intended to remove them once she reached the Great Oak. If she kept them on, the Chattan might discover her identity if he asked questions. Not that many women wore spectacles in the valley.
The ground was wet and spongy beneath her feet as she left the path and walked into the woods. Clouds covered the sky, but the full moon peeped out every once in a while to guide her way. All was eerily quiet. A fog drifted across the ground and the trees took on sinister shapes.
Portia refused to let herself think nonsense about ghosts and spirits and dangers, although her pulse was racing madly. What she was doing was a gamble, but didn’t they say fortune favored the bold? And she truly had no other choice. She needed money.
She was almost to the end of Camber Hall’s property when she noticed a white object hovering on a tree stump. The object moved, jumping into the brush.
Portia gave a start, her hand going to her throat, but a small meow told her how silly she was being.
“Owl, you gave me a terrible fright.”
The wee cat answered with another of her light, complacent meows.
Portia forged on. Owl followed at a distance, disappearing into the brush from time to time. In truth, she welcomed the cat’s comforting presence.
After a half hour of hard walking, Portia reached the Great Oak, which was a landmark in this section of the woods. Since the oak was on the way to Crazy Lizzy’s house, Portia knew it well. The tree was set off the path and stood by itself, tall and
majestic.
However, tonight, as she entered the clearing surrounding it, she received a surprise. The clouds had opened around the moon, painting the area a silvery light and highlighting the toadstool ring around the tree.
“Toadstool rings are not evil,” Portia whispered to herself. Still, its presence brought out a superstitious uneasiness Portia did not know she had.
A toadstool ring was witchy.
Yes, they could be found all over, but not this time of year.
The chant in Fenella’s book came to Portia’s mind and she found herself repeatedly murmuring, “Queen of the Meadow, take this evil from this house,” as she approached the Great Oak.
The tree was barren of leaves and its trunk was so wide around that it would take the arms of two men to encircle it. Therefore the toadstool ring was enormous.
Portia stepped inside the ring and put her bag on the ground. She raised a hand to lower the hood of her cloak so she could put on her hat, when a deep male English voice behind her said, “Hello, Fenella.”
Portia froze. She dared not breathe, let alone move. She was not prepared. She still wore her spectacles, but at least her cloak covered her head. And there was no time to make presentation of the dress she’d labored over all day.
“It’s not midnight,” she said, blurting the first words that came to her mind, and then chastised herself because she hadn’t used any of the special voices she’d practiced.
“I wouldn’t be a good soldier if I did what was expected, would I?”
She pulled the hood of her cloak lower over her face to hide her spectacles and slowly turned.
He was a dark shadow against the forest. The shadow moved and changed into a tall, broad-shouldered man in greatcoat and boots.
The time had come. She could not show fear or allow herself to feel it. She had come this far to play a part, and so she would.
Portia raised a gloved hand and, using the witch’s voice she had practiced that day, said, “And I wouldn’t be a good witch if I let you have your way. Begone with you. We have no more business between each other.”
The Scottish Witch Page 5