Minnie started to turn to Portia as if searching for support, but then her gaze riveted on a sight beyond Portia’s shoulder.
Portia turned to look directly where her sister stared. Mr. Tolliver stood off by a punch table, speaking to two not-uncomely women. He acted very interested in what they were saying and seemed not to have noticed Minnie’s arrival.
So then Minnie did what every woman in the room would have done, she began flirting with a vengeance and in short order was being led toward the dance floor where the dancers were taking positions for the next set.
“May I help you with your cloak, Miss Maclean?” Portia heard a man ask. “Seems a pity you haven’t joined us yet.” She turned to see it was a smiling Mr. Buchanan.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. She’d been so concerned for her sister, she’d not seen to her own needs. As for her mother, Lady Maclean was holding court with the young men left behind. She was obviously keeping a tally. There would be much reliving of this evening for months to come.
The duke’s man removed her cloak, saying, “We don’t stand on much ceremony here, not for the Christmas Assembly. As you can see, it is open to one and all. What’s important is that we enjoy a bit of merriment.”
“I’m looking forward to the evening,” Portia answered.
“Even introductions are easy,” he advised her. “As the punch bowls empty, we become very friendly. Beware. The lads will dance your feet off.”
“I thank you for the warning, sir.” Of course, Portia rarely danced. Not any longer. She was too old.
Certainly, she didn’t expect to cause a stir in any form close to her sister. Her dress was a creamy muslin she’d worn to a family gathering years ago during better times. It was trimmed in green ribbon so she thought it festive . . . although she did feel a bit too aged for the gown. The dress had been fashioned for her younger self. Her hopeful self.
And because she hadn’t any expectations for the evening, she hadn’t done anything with her hair other than what she normally did. She’d just pulled it back with a matching ribbon from her dress. She wished she had her glasses. She could see, but they had also come to offer protection over the years. They made it easier for her to be the plainer sister.
“I have the money we owe for rent. We don’t want to upset the duke’s daughter any more than we already have, but I warn you, sir, Minnie is going to be an uncommon success tonight.”
“You are right, however, I’m not certain Lady Emma cares about the competition your sister may give her for being the belle of the countryside. As you can see, her attentions are firmly fixed, which is one of the reasons so many of our bucks came running to claim your sister’s attention.” He nodded toward the other side of the barn as he spoke.
Portia had been introduced to Lady Emma at church. The girl was all of eighteen with creamy skin, black-as-a-raven’s-wing hair and blue eyes—just the sort of Scottish lass troubadours would have lauded in songs.
She was also willful and condescending. Portia usually steered clear of her, as did Minnie.
But right now, all of Lady Emma’s attention was claimed by a man, a tall man, one who was familiar to Portia—the English Chattan.
For a second, all Portia could do was stare. Mr. Buchanan was introducing his wife to her, a pretty woman with merry eyes, but Portia listened with only half an ear.
The Chattan was more handsome in the lamplight than he had been in the moonlight. He was dressed as all the other men were here. Some wore evening dress but a good number more wore breeches and tall boots. Of course, the boots were shined and their best clothes pressed, however, the Chattan wore his with the unmistakable air of a Corinthian through and through.
Many of the young men this evening were already aping his manner. They lacked the money to purchase buff-colored breeches of material woven so tightly they hugged his form perfectly or leather boots that fit so well they seemed a part of his legs.
His jacket was a deep, dark blue so that the neck cloth at his neck, tied in the most current fashion, appeared an even more brilliant white. His waistcoat was red, as if to bring a cheery note to the festivities.
Of course the one thing the Scottish lads could not copy no matter how hard they tried was the Chattan’s military bearing, developed, no doubt, over years of discipline. There was a touch of gray at his temples, something she could not have seen during their meeting beneath the Great Oak.
But it was his eyes that claimed all her attention. He was a keen-eyed man—and he was looking right at her.
Portia’s breath caught in her throat. Her first instinct was panic. He must not recognize her. He couldn’t.
And yet, what if he did?
She murmured some words to excuse herself to Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan. She feared she cut Mrs. Buchanan off in mid-sentence but what else could she do?
She had to gather Minnie and her mother and tell them they must leave immediately.
It would be a challenge, but their very lives—no, Portia’s very life—might depend upon it.
Blending in the best she could with the crowd and keeping her head down, Portia worked toward where her mother was gaily chatting away. She dared to glance over her shoulder, hoping that she had been mistaken and the Chattan had not been staring at her.
Oh. No. He was still watching her.
Lady Emma had noticed he was not completely attentive to her and turned to see why.
Portia ducked her head lower. She had reached the dance floor. Her purpose was to catch Minnie’s notice. However, as Minnie’s young man preened at having such a lovely partner, she was looking over at the punch table where Mr. Tolliver stood alone studying the contents of his drink glass. He appeared as heart bereft as Minnie.
If he would look up, he would see Minnie’s longing . . . and Portia decided what he needed was a good talking to, something to counter her mother’s insensitivity, but it wasn’t going to happen tonight. They needed to go home with all possible haste—
Portia almost walked into him before she saw him.
The Chattan stood right in front of her.
She looked up, frightened. He bowed, a short, courteous movement. “Miss Maclean, I beg the opportunity to introduce myself to you. I’m Colonel Harry Chattan. I knew your father.”
Portia didn’t dare speak. She didn’t know if she trusted her voice. In any second, she expected him to denounce her, to accuse her of stealing, of lying, of pretending to be a witch.
He was going to expose her, right there in front of everyone—
Another man’s voice interrupted them. “Miss Maclean, would you dance with me?”
Portia whirled around to face the speaker. Mr. Longacre was the caretaker at church. He was some thirty years her senior with an earnest expression on his face. She flashed him a brilliant smile. “Of course I would,” she said, delighted to be whisked away from the Englishman, but then Colonel Chattan proved he had other plans.
I’m sorry, I’ve spoken for this dance,” the colonel said—and then he took her arm.
Portia’s temper flared. “I did not hear you ask to dance,” she said.
Colonel Chattan directed her to their place on the dance floor. “That was my intent,” he said. “And you should be honored. I don’t dance.”
She latched onto his statement as her escape. “Oh, well, then we don’t need to,” she said, and would have turned and walked away but he captured her hand.
“I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice low as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear.
Her blood rang in her ears in fear. “About what?” She’d squeaked the words out, actually squeaked.
Before he could answer, the music started, and the caller of the dance announced, “A kiss to the ladies.” Portia barely registered this unusual command when Colonel Chattan leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
Startled, Portia dr
ew back. The touch of his lips had been like a small jolt of electricity.
If he felt the same, he didn’t show it. Instead, he said almost apologetically, “It’s the rule of the Christmas Assembly. To start the dance, the lads must give the lasses a peck. I believe it is a capital idea.”
And she realized she hadn’t been the only one kissed. All the dancers, even the married couples, had kissed. Most were demure kisses and some not so. Minnie’s partner had been overenthusiastic, and those close to them were laughing at her skillful handling at cutting short his efforts.
Heat rushed to Portia’s cheeks. She’d been kissed before. Twice, when she was much younger and she’d had suitors. That was before her father’s death. They’d been kind, considerate men who hadn’t aroused much passion in her.
But Colonel Chattan was different.
He was the sort of man who could make any woman’s blood race, and Portia was no exception, except she should be. She must be on guard and not let his lips close to her again.
And then Colonel Chattan took her hand and the dance began.
It had been a long time since Portia had danced. The set’s figures were simple and the caller good so that everyone knew what to do without the music being overshadowed. Portia was out of practice and felt very self-conscious, but she would have been that way with any partner, albeit more so with him. He had a presence about him that threatened her in a way she wasn’t certain she understood.
He knew how to hold a woman’s hand. He didn’t grip too hard or too lightly. He wasn’t a skipper or hopper as some of the gentlemen dancers were. In fact, he moved with an athletic grace, despite favoring his right leg.
Nor did he count the steps to himself under his breath as the gentleman to his left did. Or step on her toes the way the gentleman to the right did to his partner.
And Portia found herself relaxing. She actually smiled. Minnie caught her eye and gave her a sisterly grin in encouragement. The music was merry and fun, the dancers were lighthearted, and Portia couldn’t help but enjoy herself even when Lady Emma managed to move herself and her partner over to where Colonel Chattan was.
And then the dance was over.
He bowed.
She curtseyed.
He reached for her arm—
“Was that not the best fun?” Lady Emma asked, stepping between Portia and Colonel Chattan. “But I do enjoy a quadrille.”
“Yes, it was good,” he answered, again reaching for Portia.
“The next dance will be a reel. You know you owe me a dance, Colonel,” Lady Emma said, her voice dropping, becoming coy.
Portia didn’t wait to hear what else was said. She took the young woman’s distraction as an opportunity to escape among the other dancers leaving the dance floor and those moving toward it.
Colonel Chattan had not denounced her. That was a blessing and she would be wise to not give him another opportunity. She was still intent on gathering her family and leaving, until she noticed Mr. Tolliver slip outside. He went alone, his head down, his shoulders slumped.
Had he seen Minnie’s partner kissing her so enthusiastically? Certainly he could not escape noticing that Minnie was being courted by what seemed to be the entire male population of Glenfinnan.
Across the crowd, Portia located her mother’s bobbling ostrich plumes. Minnie was there. The brief smile the sisters had exchanged was gone from her face. Another eager lad was offering his arm, and there was a line waiting. A line of men who would not make her happy.
Minnie’s feet would be danced off her legs before this night was out. However, instead of the dance being a moment of social triumph, Minnie’s sadness was hard to witness.
The only one pleased with the turn of events was Lady Maclean.
There were many reasons God created big sisters, and the most important, in Portia’s mind, was for them to speak for their younger siblings.
It didn’t seem right that two people who had so enjoyed each other’s company were now apart, and all because neither spoke up.
Portia understood Minnie couldn’t run after Mr. Tolliver. It would not be seemly.
But Portia could.
She dismissed her concerns about Colonel Chattan. They were unimportant in the face of True Love.
Without a word to her mother or anyone else, Portia walked out the door in search of Mr. Tolliver.
There were quite a few gentlemen gathered outside around the door. They stood in the torchlight, sharing a bottle that they passed between them. Mr. Tolliver was not among their number.
“Here, lass,” one of them said. He was Augie Macdonald, the farrier. “Take my plaid and keep your shoulders warm.”
Portia gratefully accepted the offering and continued on her way.
Horses nickered at her as she moved past them. The ground was soft but not wet, and even if it had been, she would not have thought of her dancing slippers. She was on a mission.
And then she caught sight of Mr. Tolliver. He had on his hat and was standing by his horse. He was giving a coin to one of the lads who watched the horses, and Portia had to hurry or he would leave. She hastened her step.
“Mr. Tolliver, please, I beg of you to wait.”
He turned to her. His shoulders stiffened, but he was a polite man.
“How may I be of service, Miss Maclean?” he asked.
Portia glanced at the boy and his friends who were listening with big ears. “Please, sir, walk with me a moment?”
“Of course.” Mr. Tolliver nodded to the boy to continue watching his horse and offered his arm. Portia directed him toward the trees to the side of the barn. There was a pond here and tables had been set out. Other couples lingered around them so Portia didn’t think their presence would be too remarkable. However, to ensure they were not overheard, she moved as far from other people as she could. She didn’t need to worry. Those others were too caught up in their conversations to eavesdrop on Portia’s.
She faced Mr. Tolliver. “Why are you leaving the dance so early?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her meaning. “You know why I’m not.”
“No, I don’t.” She drew a breath and plunged in with the question uppermost in her mind. “Do you not admire my sister?”
“Of course I do.”
“Above all others?” she demanded.
There was a beat of silence. Portia could feel the man struggle with himself. “You know I have deep affection for her.”
Portia wanted to groan her frustration. She hated when men and women kept their distance with words. She herself liked to cut to the heart of a matter. That was how one managed to see things done.
“She has been waiting for you to call.”
“I mustn’t. She will be wiser to find a better man.”
“Oh, so you can’t abide her.”
He appeared startled at her suggestion. “Who could not like your sister?” he said. “She is one of the stars in the heavens. She is gracious and kind and lovely. The most perfect woman God ever fashioned.”
“Is that why you ignore her?” Portia surmised, her tone making it clear he didn’t make sense.
Mr. Tolliver lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders. “I’m not ignoring her. I am setting her free.”
“Free of what?”
“Me.”
There, he’d finally admitted it, and now Portia was determined to set him straight. “I know what my mother said to you. I am deeply embarrassed—”
“She was right—”
“She was wrong.” Portia placed her hand on his arm. “Mother is, well, funny in her conclusions. I don’t agree with her emphasis on the superficial. Nor does Minnie. My sister admires you greatly. She may appear to many to be happily dancing, but I know her best of all, and her heart is breaking. She holds you in the deepest affection, sir. She doesn’t love lightly
and she loves you.”
He released his breath with the same fervor of a man who had just witnessed a miracle. “I love her.”
“Then I would not be standing out here in the dark, Mr. Tolliver. Or planning to return home early. I believe you should return to the barn and ask Minnie to dance.”
The kindly doctor took a step away. “If only I could. There is another matter that your mother took me into confidence to speak, and I must hold my tongue, but I understand her concerns. Minnie could do much better.”
“Are you talking about the fact we have no money and she expects Minnie to marry well to provide for us?”
He blinked at her bald speaking.
“Mr. Tolliver, are you afraid that my mother and I will be a charge to you? That very well could be true. We are done up. However, my mother and I will manage. We understand that you and Minnie will need to set up your household.”
“I would gladly take you all on,” Mr. Tolliver said, surprising Portia. “I would be honored to do so. Although finances would be tight.”
“It is not anything we are not accustomed to.”
“I know,” he agreed sadly. “And you all deserve better. That is what your mother forcefully impressed upon me.”
“To Minnie, sir, you are the best,” Portia said softly.
“Because she is so kindhearted. But look at me. I’m half a head shorter than she is. I have a big nose and if I’m not careful, I’ll have a big gut as well. My idea of an entertaining evening is a good book and my bed. I own one horse, a small library, and will never be more than a country doctor. I like it here. These mountains, this valley is my home. Minnie is a woman who could outshine the best of them in London.”
“I don’t know why I’m arguing with you,” Portia said, deciding to put a touch of big-sister bullishness in her voice. “And you are right. My sister is very lovely in person and in her nature. She could crook her finger and a half dozen of the most handsome men in the valley would be on their knees in front of her. She’s demonstrating that this evening. However, she fell in love with a country doctor who believes her nature so shallow she doesn’t know her own mind. Yes, yes, yes, you are right. Well, begone with you, Mr. Tolliver. I tried to serve as a friend and sister to both of you, but I see it is hopeless. You do not care for her—”
The Scottish Witch Page 8