by Regan Walker
“Certainly,” said Will. “And you can ride if you like. My groom would be happy to accompany you.”
Mary smiled. “That sounds just the thing.”
Will turned to the countess. “Now, how about you, Muriel? I don’t suppose you want to join the hunt?”
Muriel grimaced. “Absolutely deplore all that blood.” Then, with a twinkle in her eye, “But I’m happy to eat the roast goose! As for the morrow, nothing would please me more than a leisurely breakfast and some time with my friend, Emily, and Kit if she would join us.” To Emily, she said, “We should check with Mrs. Pratt and your cook about the plans for Christmas dinner. I don’t believe my cook has ever roasted a pink-footed goose.”
“A good idea,” said Emily, casting a glance at Ailie. “When Ailie and I left them earlier, Mrs. Platt and Martha were getting along famously. But it is wise to ask what the two of them have decided about the menus. We may encounter some disagreements there.”
With dinner concluded, Will suggested they retire as a group to the library. Typically, the women would leave the men to their port and brandy and take tea in the parlor. “But for tonight,” he told them, “Let’s get to know each other better.”
Ailie did not disagree, for she was coming to enjoy their English guests.
In the library, Robbie accepted a glass of cognac and watched with amusement as his twin brother stared in rapture at the tall wooden shelves lining the walls filled with leather-bound books. The smell of leather and wood, to which was added the faint scent of birch burning in the fireplace, would delight a man such as Nash, who was always looking for a comfortable nest where he could get lost in his books.
“This room is Nash’s idea of Heaven,” Robbie remarked to Ailie who had accompanied them into the room with the other guests.
“Mine, too,” she replied with a smile directed at Nash. Robbie silently admonished himself. He would have to be careful not to throw too many bones to his twin or he would soon lose the girl’s affection to his brother.
Several members of their company had gathered to admire the painting that hung above the fireplace. It depicted a statuesque auburn-haired woman in a flowing amber gown. Robbie was struck by the serene expression on her face.
“Our mother,” William informed the others when they inquired.
“A beautiful woman,” Nash said, turning to look at Ailie. “I note the resemblance.”
Robbie had to credit Nash for claiming early ground with the girl. Nash’s compliment had caused the girl to blush, roses suffusing her cheeks. Indeed, Ailie Stephen looked very much like her mother, save the older woman’s hair was darker and the artist had not included any freckles he could see.
“A kind thing to say, Mr. Powell, and I thank you.” Ailie dropped her gaze, bid them a good eve and went to join the women sitting on one of the blue leather settees.
Robbie watched the girl walk away, intrigued. “My congratulations, Brother, you have managed to stake the first claim.”
Nash merely shrugged.
In the center of the room, a mahogany table surrounded by six chairs provided a place for study. Robbie envisioned it spread with maps. Nash’s passion was his books, but Robbie loved maps and nautical charts.
“I expect I will find you here often,” he said to Nash.
Nash sipped his brandy. “Only the shipyard and orangery hold more interest for me. Well, and the Mistress of the Setters, as you call Ailie.”
Robbie didn’t miss the wistful look that appeared on Nash’s face at the mention of the redhead’s name. On the occasions they had competed for the affection of London ladies, Robbie could not recall seeing that look.
Opposite the fireplace on the other side of the room, a painting of a ship in a sculpted gold frame drew Nash away from Robbie’s side. Interested, Robbie followed.
It wasn’t as if the walls in their London home weren’t covered with paintings of ships. Still, Nash was the designer in the family, or at least he had been before they’d accepted the recent assignments from the Crown. He would be drawn to one of unusual design.
The schooner’s sleek hull and raked masts were not unknown to Robbie since his family had acquired a few of the Baltimore clippers from Nick’s father-in-law. This design had the clipper bow, but the stern appeared quite different.
“Most unusual,” murmured Nash. “The stern has a reverse rake, angling forward toward the bow.” Robbie sipped his brandy, sensing his brother’s rising passion for what he was seeing.
Brandy in hand, William strolled over to where Robbie and Nash stood admiring the painting illuminated by candle sconces on either side.
“Is that one of your ships?” Nash inquired of their host.
“It will be one day. That’s the Ossian, named by her designer for the narrator of myths in the volume published by the Scottish poet James Macpherson.”
Nash examined the painting. “She’s a fine-looking schooner. Designed for speed, I wager.”
William took a drink of his brandy and smiled. “’Tis an advanced design. None have been built like it in Scotland. I had a local artist do this painting from the designer’s sketches.”
“I’d like to speak with your designer,” said Nash. “Would it be possible?”
A slow smile spread across William’s face. “Aye, I expect so. She’s sitting just there with the other ladies.”
Robbie and Nash turned to see Ailie Stephen perched on the settee with Emily, the countess and the wives of their brothers, sipping tea. Ailie had to be the one William referred to.
The look on Nash’s face was one of wonder. “Your sister is a draftsman?”
Robbie well understood. No women they knew engaged in ship design, not even in the American company owned by Tara’s father where Tara had been allowed to sail with her brothers.
William nodded. “She is indeed.”
Robbie’s curiosity got the better of him. “How ever did that happen?”
William brought his hand to his chin. “I’d have to explain a bit about our family to tell you that.”
Robbie and Nash stared at their host expectantly.
“Very well, if you insist. For ten years, I was the only child of our parents. They despaired of ever having another despite my father having named the business Alexander Stephen & Sons. When Ailie arrived, they were delighted, notwithstanding her sex. They took her everywhere and encouraged her love of ships. Eventually, she tagged behind me to my father’s shops. That is, when she wasn’t cajoling our father’s men into showing her the new ship designs.”
Nash’s brows furrowed. “She picked up the skill just watching?”
“Not exactly. My father’s men considered her an adorable gamin, treating her like a pet. Unbeknownst to us, she was asking questions and learning. By the time our younger brothers arrived years later, Ailie had become a fixture in the shops, already sketching her own designs.”
Robbie examined the painting. “Lord knows she has talent.”
“And vision,” said Nash. “That design takes the schooner another step into the future.”
William set down his glass, now empty, and crossed his arms, gazing at the painting. “Aye, it does. When our father discovered he had three sons, none of whom cared to design ships and a daughter who did, he patted Ailie on the head and chided our mother for failing to instruct her in the finer attributes of being a lady.
“As a result, my sister was given lessons in deportment, dancing and French. When not engaged in those activities, she was confined to the drawing room where she poured tea and learned embroidery. But at night in her bedchamber, the little rebel designed some of what became my father’s best ships.”
Robbie liked the sound of that. A woman with spirit and a will of her own always appealed.
Nash shifted his attention to the gamin in question. “I see. Stubborn, she won in the end.”
William gave a small laugh. “Aye, she did. When I returned from the war in France, I was quick to steal her away to Arbroath.”<
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Robbie wondered if a rebel could be so easily tamed. “So, she now works for you?”
“Aye and no. She’s my partner and oversees the draftsmen. When she is at the concept stage, you’ll find her in the office at the desk next to mine.” Then looking at Nash, “Tomorrow when she shows you around, ask her about the Ossian. It’s her favorite subject.”
Robbie carefully scrutinized his brother’s face. He was certain Nash eagerly anticipated the opportunity to be alone with Ailie Stephen. But Robbie, too, intended to seek some time with her. Perhaps the afternoon’s hunt for the Yule log would afford him the chance he needed.
When William took his leave and ambled over to the others, Robbie faced his brother. “I told you she was interesting.”
“And I seem to recall saying she is enchanting.”
“Ho!” quipped Robbie. “The game is afoot.”
Chapter 5
19 December
Ailie woke with a start, her dream rapidly fading, the images slipping away like rabbits into the brush. She raised her head from the pillow, listening to the sound of boots retreating in the corridor. Her brother and the men must be departing for their hunting jaunt.
She dropped her head to her pillow and tried to call back the dream.
The face belonged to the same man as before, one of the Powell twins, but this time he wore a grin. She couldn’t tell if it was from pleasure, triumph or something else. And she had no idea whether the man was Robbie or Nash.
She was beginning to detect small differences in their natures, not apparent when she’d first met them. She had to observe them for a while to be certain she had it right. It seemed to her that Robbie’s smile sometimes took on the appearance of a smirk. Nash, on the other hand, smiled less, but when he did, his eyes twinkled with mirth.
The bits and pieces of her dream that she could remember included the inside of a dim, hazy tavern, then the sound of men fighting, chairs being knocked over and voices expelling curses.
What could it mean? On the rare occasion she had been inside a tavern, she’d been looking for Will and she remembered none of that.
She shivered as a feeling of disquiet came over her. Sliding out of bed, she lit a candle and padded to her small desk, her fingers brushing across the pages of her diary sitting open. She’d written the last entry just before she’d blown out the candle the night before.
18 December
The English have arrived in Arbroath and still, we remain, giving me reason to believe we will survive the onslaught. After all, ’tis only the holidays we share with them. At dinner, they turned up their noses at the kale, just like Emily did at first. What is wrong with the English palate? They did enjoy the venison and, like Will, the men savored the French brandy. In that, they remind me of Grandfather Ramsay and his ale. Speaking of which, I do believe he is in for a Hogmanay such as he has never known. Our guests are a lively bunch of Sassenachs, the women no less than the men. Mary and Tara seem rather independent, which endeared them to me. The countess is the picture of English nobility, but with a dry sense of humor. Father would approve.
She went to the fireplace and added a log to the crackling fire, watching the flames and listening to the muted sounds. The thought of having a full house appealed to her, even if it meant many more servants and maids scurrying about the place. The young maids’ giggles, she presumed, were for the handsome Powell men and Ormond.
Dawn brought light to her chamber that faced the shipyard. She glanced out her window and then set about brushing her teeth. She had just finished when Rhona came to help her dress.
“A linen dress for the morning would be best as I’ll be making my usual jaunt in the orangery. I will return to change into a woolen gown for the rest of the day. If the weather allows, today we’ll search for the Yule log.”
Rhona took the green linen dress from the clothes press. “Will ye be going to the shipyard?”
“Oh, you remind me. One of the Powell twins asked me to give him a tour this morning.”
Rhona slipped the gown over Ailie’s shift and corset. “Which one?”
“I think he is Nash. Does it matter? I can hardly tell them apart.”
“A handsome pair, to be sure. And unwed, Mistress.”
“As Will would have me be aware. Is the countess up yet?”
Rhona buttoned the back of Ailie’s dress. “I checked before I came here. The fire in her chamber is now burning well, so I expect her to be up soon. I will go there after I leave ye. From my tending to her needs last night, I can see she is a woman who knows what she wants. She likes efficient service and is truly grateful when she gets it.”
“She will be pleased with you, Rhona. Perfection is difficult to duplicate, even in London.”
Rhona picked up the brush but Ailie thought to let her maid attend Muriel. “You go on. The countess will be up by now. Tell her if I finish my morning walk early, I will look for her at breakfast.”
Nash loved nothing so much as waking to the smell of freshly baked bread and coffee. Sniffing the air as he laid in bed, he detected spices and cinnamon threaded among the enticing smells. Fruit scones, perhaps?
His nose, peeking above the cover, was cold, a sure sign the fire had died during the night. One of those silly maids he frightened last night in his state of undress was probably too timid to set foot in their chamber to stir the fire to life.
Only the delicious smells stirred him to rise from his nest in the warm bed. Throwing off the cover, he braced himself against the chilled air and cast a glance at his still sleeping brother in the next bed. Apparently, Robbie had concluded a trip into town to visit the local taverns did not require an early rise. Too, Robbie was never one to be ambitious for the morning. He preferred nightly pursuits. In that, they were truly different, and it had served them well when it came to their work for the Crown.
Glimpsing the pale shafts of sunlight filtering through the curtains, it occurred to him the men going to hunt the geese must have left some time ago. He did not regret his choice to stay behind. Besides, his older brothers would surely elaborate on their morning excursion when they returned.
For his first morning in Arbroath, he had something entirely different in mind. He intended to sample the wonderful breakfast he suspected was, even now, being set out on the sideboard. Then he planned to visit Emily’s orangery to glimpse her achievement with pineapples in the early sun, as she had suggested.
But after that, he would have a tour of the shipyard by the beautiful Ailie Stephen. He had never been so captivated by a woman and learning they had in common a fondness for designing ships only made her more intriguing. Her tenacity reminded him a bit of Nick’s wife Tara, who, as a young girl, had insisted on going to sea with her brothers.
Nash rubbed the stubble on his face and decided he could avoid shaving until evening. Robbie disdained shaving as well so their appearance would not be different. Besides, it suited Robbie’s destination this morning for him to show a bit of beard.
Placing the unopened razor horizontally beside the bowl of water would be his signal to Robbie not to shave. Then Nash washed with the same sandalwood soap Robbie would use and splashed water on his face, drying it with the towel one of the timid maids had left.
Dressed, he tied his cravat simply as he and Robbie had agreed and lifted the brown tailcoat from where Robbie had left it on a peg the night before. He had only to run a comb through his hair before slipping from the room.
In the dining room, the servants were just changing the linens from those who had eaten earlier. “Breakfast will be ready shortly,” said the young footman.
Nash nodded. “I shall return then.”
Emily had told him where the orangery was the night before so he hurried to the corridor between the kitchen and the library across from William’s study. At the end, he found a door. The moment he opened it, he was surrounded by warm sweet-smelling air. He closed the door, drinking in the scented air, as enticing as the smells that had awakene
d him.
The structure he had entered was separate from the house. He did not see the stoves he knew must be the source of heat, nor did he smell any fumes. For some years, hot water had been piped into homes in London from stoves located outside, so perhaps the stoves were in a separate structure.
The orangery had to be thirty feet in length. On one end, backed against a wall of brick, stood a virtual forest of orange trees in rows of large wooden boxes, their brightly colored fruit peeking through green leaves. Emily had certainly been busy in the year she’d been here.
In the middle of the orangery were a variety of plants, some in pots and others in large raised platforms framed in wood. Included among them was the dreaded kale.
One side of the orangery featured wide glass doors, the kind that folded open, allowing the plants to be moved outside in the summer. But even on this winter day, pale sunlight flowed through the angled windows to bring light into the large space.
Outside, the world was covered in winter’s snow but, inside, the scent of the orange trees and flowers dominated, reminding him of his trips to the West Indies.
Several pots of flowers stood on one side. He recognized the yellow hibiscus and brightly colored camellias. More clay pots containing flowers lined the windows. He bent to smell the delicate flowers of the lily of the valley, recognizing the sweet smell as Ailie’s from their dinner the night before. Nearby, the white Christmas rose was just beginning to flower.
As he made his way to the far end, he saw a smaller glassed area. Carefully, he opened the glass door and stepped inside where he encountered even warmer air.
So this is where Emily is growing her pineapples.
Six leafy plants growing in clay pots had been sunk into a rectangular pit strewn with chips of oak bark. Some of the pineapples, their spiny leaves rising in the air, were already yellow ripe. He was impressed.
William had told him the Scots had been growing pineapples for a hundred years, yet Nash had never seen it done before.