by Regan Walker
“’Tis an unusual gown Lady Emily had made fer ye,” said Rhona. “’Tis silk, no?”
Ailie ran her hand down the front of the high-waisted gown, the silk a tartan of red, green and gold that rustled as she walked. She might not have chosen the particular plaid, but it went remarkably well with her hair. “Aye, ’tis silk. Perhaps I should wear my hair up tonight, it being Christmas Eve.”
“’Twould be pretty that way.” Ailie took a seat and Rhona went to work, fashioning Ailie’s hair into a long looping knot on the back of her head. A few curls were left out to frame her face and dangle down her nape.
When her maid had finished, Ailie stared into the mirror, seeing a remarkable change.
“You’re a wonder, Rhona. I look positively… elegant.”
“’Tis the truth, ye do. Just remember to take yer cloak should ye go out into the night air, or yer neck will freeze.”
Ailie laughed. “That and the rest of me. Perhaps, I’ll confine any walks to the orangery.”
When she entered the parlor, filled with their guests, Ailie was glad she had taken care with her appearance.
“A lovely change,” said Emily, coming to her side. Her sister-in-law wore an ivory silk gown with a red shawl. Her ebony hair was curled around her face, a contrast to her alabaster skin. “I’m delighted the gown fits you so well.”
Emily ushered her to the other ladies standing to one side as Ailie thanked her for the gown.
“I will do a sketch of all the ladies,” remarked Kit, her dark red tresses the color of Ailie’s mother’s hair before it began turning gray. Ailie was surprised at Kit’s choice of gown, but the scarlet silk brocade was quite striking on her.
Mary left Hugh’s arm to come to join them. “I have never seen silk tartan before. It’s exquisite on you, Ailie.” Dressed like a young queen, Mary’s gown had been fashioned from pale green satin to which had been added a gold sash. Her fair hair was sleeked back and confined to her crown.
“You would pay me compliments,” Ailie said to the other women, “yet your gowns and hair are stunning.” Truly, Ailie was overwhelmed. Even the ladies in Aberdeen were not more elegantly attired than these.
Tara, Ailie’s kindred spirit, had set her informal clothing aside to don a silk gown the same color as her blue-green eyes. “I see we are all dressed in similar fashion for the evening,” she remarked. “The maids must have been busy.”
“I think it fitting we dress like this for your English Christmas,” said Ailie, “but for Hogmanay, which you call New Year’s Eve, you need not dress so elegantly. If the weather cooperates, we’ll be in Stonehaven.”
“Another adventure!” exclaimed Tara. “How exciting.”
Muriel left the men standing at the fireplace to join Ailie and the other women. “Why, you ladies all look like you are attending one of my balls.”
Emily gave Muriel’s gown a long perusal. “Are you certain you do not speak of yourself?”
The women fixed their gazes on Muriel’s golden gown. The bodice was trimmed in jet beads and the golden overskirt ended in stylish Vandyke points trimmed in the same beads and black silk tassels. Around her neck, she wore her customary pearls, only wound double to fall higher. Circling her silver hair was a band of crystals and, soaring above all, a large ivory feather.
“Oh, my,” said Mary. “You have quite outdone yourself, Countess.”
“This?” Muriel looked down at her gown. “Pshaw. It’s at least ten years old though, as I recall, it was unique at the time. My dressmaker copied the gown from one of those dolls she managed to sneak out of Paris.”
“It’s timeless,” remarked Kit, “as are you, dear Muriel.”
“Humph,” Muriel murmured, but Ailie could tell she was pleased. Ailie only wished Grandfather Ramsay could be here to admire her.
“Shall we join the men?” inquired Emily. “I do believe they are staring at us. Clustered together as we are, they might be reticent to approach, thinking we are engaged in some discussion fit only for feminine ears.”
“Childbirth, you mean,” said Mary. “You are right. We’d best go rescue them.”
With that, Ailie and Emily ventured forth to greet the men and the other ladies followed.
Nash greeted Ailie with an approving smile, his hazel eyes sparkling. “You are lovely.” In his eyes, Ailie saw more than just the compliment and fought her rising flush.
“I must agree with my brother,” said Robbie. “The Mistress of the Setters outshines all the ladies tonight.”
She accepted a cup of wassail from a footman. “Why thank you, Robbie, but I have seen them and I know you lie.” She shifted her gaze from Robbie to Nash, taking in their identical attire. Both wore green velvet tailcoats, ivory waistcoats and black trousers. “Did you dress this way to confuse us all?”
“’Tis a Christmas tradition,” said Nash, taking a drink of the cup he held. “We defy our family to try and tell us apart.”
“When we intentionally ape each other, not just in our clothing but in our speech,” added Robbie, “few can do it.”
Ailie was curious to know how alike the twins could appear. “What about your parents? Don’t they know their sons?”
Robbie exchanged his empty glass for another brandy from a passing tray. “Eventually they come to it after a bit of conversation.”
“Well, promise you will never try and confuse me. It would be most disconcerting.”
The twins hesitated, exchanging a look, and then said together, “We promise.”
The dinner that followed was a worthy feast. They ate the succulent roast venison with roast vegetables and potatoes while Will told stories of his first Christmas in London. He had celebrated the holiday with his chum, Ormond, who took him to his country home to meet his family.
“We did a lot of riding as I recall,” said Hugh.
“Aye, and a lot of eating and drinking,” added William. “If you think our home is large, Ailie, you should see the Duke of Albany’s estate in Ruislip outside of London.”
“That’s my parents’ home,” explained Hugh. “Most of the time, Mary and I live in our townhouse in London.”
Mary smiled at Ailie. “If you accept Muriel’s invitation, you must visit us in Mayfair. I will invite the ladies for tea.”
“That is most kind of you.” Ailie snuck a glance at Nash, seeing an invitation in his eyes.
For dessert, they had Will’s favorite, cranachan, a Scottish tradition their English guests had not sampled before.
“Anything in it we should know about?” asked Hugh, his spoon suspended above the layered confection.
“Not unless you are averse to toasted oatmeal, cream, honey, raspberries and a dash of brandy,” replied Ailie. “I assure you, no kale is hiding beneath the layers.”
Everyone laughed and picked up their spoons.
“Our cook bottled the raspberries herself last summer,” offered Emily.
Will licked some of the honeyed confection from his bottom lip. “If you don’t want yours, Ormond, old chum, I’d be happy to take it from you.” He made as if to reach his spoon toward Hugh’s cranachan.
Hugh raised his spoon like a sword poised to repel an attack. “You’re not getting mine ‘old chum’. I do believe I will like the dessert.”
Many chuckles echoed around the table.
“I like both the cranachan and the shortbread,” said Nash with a grin aimed at Ailie.
Ailie tossed him a teasing glance. “I’m relieved we have finally found a Scottish dish or two you like.”
When dinner was concluded, they retired as a group to the parlor for tea, port and brandy. Ailie played the songs on the pianoforte she had practiced for their guests: The Twelve Days of Christmas, While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks at Night and Joy to the World.
Everyone gathered around to sing.
Will’s strong tenor voice, at times, rose above the others. The Powell men sang with vigor, joining the ladies to make wonderful music, at times jolly and
at other times reverent. Tara, it turned out, sang beautifully, so Ailie encouraged her to sing a solo from Joy to the World.
When Ailie finished playing, the faces around her all bore smiles.
As she rose from the bench, Mary encouraged her husband to take a turn at the pianoforte. “My husband is a remarkable talent,” said Mary. “His mother taught him to play as a boy.”
Ailie went to stand with the others as Hugh agreed to play for them. Nash made room for her, taking her hand, hidden in the folds of her skirt.
Hugh flipped the tails of his coat behind him and spread his long fingers over the keys. He began to play Handel’s Hallelujah chorus from the Messiah, filling the room with the glorious sounds. Ailie listened with rapt attention, transported by the spirited music.
When Hugh’s fingers lifted from the keys, there was silence for a moment. Then everyone burst into applause, even their dour butler standing at the parlor door, praising, Ailie thought, not just Hugh’s considerable talent, but also the Messiah for whom Handel had written the piece.
Christmas Day
At dawn, Ailie padded downstairs and set out into the cold morning. Knowing it would be a busy day, she wanted to give the dogs a run before they were fed. Like the day before, gray clouds hung low overhead. She sniffed the air, recognizing the scent of snow on the wind.
When she let Goodness and Mercy out of their kennel, they greeted her enthusiastically but were silent when normally they would have barked. They always acted that way just before a snowfall.
Heading toward the dock, she spotted a lone figure in a greatcoat and top hat walking ahead of her. The setters bounded ahead, wagging their tails.
“Ho! What have we here?” said Nash, bending to pet their dark heads. “A Happy Christmas to you, Goodness and Mercy.”
“You’re up early,” said Ailie, coming up to him. She could not hide the joy she felt at seeing him. Beneath his hat, his cheeks were red from the cold. He’d wrapped a green woolen scarf around his neck. Even in the dull light, his green and gold eyes sparkled.
“I thought to watch for the impending snow,” he said. “Want to join me?”
“I would like that.” She turned to walk beside him.
He offered his gloved hand and she took it. “In London, I like to watch it when it first comes down. I like the feel of snowflakes on my face.”
Ailie inwardly smiled, seeing the small boy in him emerge as he turned his face to the sky expectantly.
They walked down the hill, the dogs running ahead. A short ways on, he said, “I like this time of morning when all is still, though typically, I’d be looking for the sun to be rising over the sea.”
A line from Burns came to her. “We two have paddled in the stream, from morning sun till dine; But seas between us broad have roared since days of long ago.”
“Another of Burns’ poems?” he said, giving her a lopsided grin.
“Aye, one that reminds me of us.”
Nash’s brows drew together beneath the brim of his hat. “What seas roar between us, Ailie?”
“The timeless ones between Scots and Sassenachs, I suppose. But I sense there is more I cannot see.”
They had come halfway down the path and he paused, turning to face her. “Not between us, Ailie. Any distance between us can soon be erased by time together.” The chilled air around them grew heavy with the anticipated snow. “Do you worry about us?”
She dropped her gaze, pondering what to say, then looked up. “You have not known me long enough to be aware of the Ramsay women’s second sight but, aye, I worry. My dreams speak a warning of danger.” She could not bring herself to tell him all that her dreams revealed.
He pulled her close. “Ailie, see only what is in my eyes.” He took her head in his hands and kissed her. When their lips met, her heavy heart lifted.
As he raised his head, she opened her eyes to meet his steady gaze. In the depths of his hazel eyes, she saw his longing, his desire and what might even be love.
“Can you see my feelings for you?”
“Aye.”
“Then come.” He took her hand and pulled her along toward the dock just as the snow began to fall. “Let us not worry. Instead, let us celebrate Christmas by greeting the new snow together.”
After a light breakfast, Nash again ventured into the gently falling snow, this time with Ailie and the others for the walk to Arbroath town and the Christmas service at St Mary’s.
Christmas had always been special to him, this one even more so with Ailie beside him. William and his sister had graciously agreed to attend church with their Anglican friends where, he assured them, Reverend Bruce would undoubtedly welcome them all, “even the Scots Presbyterians.”
“After all,” quipped William as he struck off down the same road Nash had traveled before, “we’re all Jock Tamson’s bairns.”
Nash raised a brow to Ailie. “Jock Tamson?”
“’Tis a Lowland Scots’ expression. ‘Jock Tamson’ is our way of referring to John Thomson, the minister of Duddingston Kirk in Edinburgh. He refers to his congregation as his bairns. Because he is well loved and well connected, the expression has spread to other parts of Scotland. It just means we are all one in the sight of God.”
“Ah,” said Robbie, “I like that. No reason we can’t observe the day together as long as we begin in one church or the other, hmm?”
Ailie directed a winning smile at Robbie. Nash experienced a pang of jealousy, as he always did when she gave her attention to his twin. He had hoped Robbie had given up his quest for the Mistress of the Setters, as he called her, but with Robbie, one never knew.
Nash did not want to disturb the mood by advising William that even though the Powell family attended an Anglican church, they were also Methodists. Their French mother, formerly a Catholic, had accepted the teachings of John Wesley and passed them along to her then growing family.
“Will you mind missing your own service tomorrow?” Nash asked Ailie. William had told them since tomorrow was Boxing Day, they would keep the English tradition of giving gifts to servants and baskets for Arbroath’s poor, and not attend the Parish Kirk’s Sunday service.
She shook her head. “One day of the week for worship together is good. Besides, no kirk will be celebrating Christmas tomorrow.”
The town, now familiar to Nash, somehow looked different with the snow falling. They walked on, passing the harbor, and a cold shudder of alarm coursed through him when he realized St Mary’s was located at the bottom of High Street, one street away from Marketgate where Kinloch lodged and a short distance from the harbor and the Panmure.
All too close in proximity for his comfort.
He exchanged a look with Robbie, seeing the discomfit on his twin’s face. What if Kinloch was walking the street with his guards and happened to see them? Would they be recognized in a gentleman’s clothing? He wondered, too, if anyone attending the service would remember him or Robbie from their afternoons spent in the taverns. He comforted himself in the knowledge that the vast majority of Scots were Presbyterians, like Ailie and William. Thus, it was logical to suppose that Kinloch’s religious affiliation would be as well.
But, as they entered the church, Nash realized he had been wrong.
Brushing snow from his greatcoat, he happened to look over his shoulder and glimpsed Kinloch sitting in the last pew flanked by his guards. He wore the same commoner’s garb, however, the hat was gone. Apparently, when the men in the church removed their hats, Kinloch did as well. The baldpate Nash had always assumed was covered by the too large hat was now on full display. Kinloch’s gesture of respect had to make his guards nervous. Their furtive glances around them suggested as much.
With their two older brothers and Hugh, who was also dark-haired, Nash and Robbie would not go unnoticed. William, too, was tall. So it was not surprising the five tall men and their ladies drew many interested glances as they moved toward the vacant front pews.
When he was halfway down the aisle, N
ash removed his hat. As he waited for their group to file into the pews, he spoke into Robbie’s ear. “Kinloch is here. Last row on the right.”
Robbie nodded but didn’t turn.
All through the service, Nash tried to focus on the hymns they were singing and the Christmas message, but the feeling he was being watched, that eyes bored into the back of his head, made that impossible. A glance across Ailie to Robbie told him his twin was experiencing the same unease.
Ailie sat close so that Nash could feel the heat of her through her cloak. A sudden desire to protect her seized him. He didn’t want her mixed up in this; he didn’t want Kinloch’s rough guards aware of the Stephens or their shipyard, yet they had only to ask to learn the shipyard’s location. At least tomorrow Kinloch would be gone. Nash prayed the man from Dundee would slip out of Arbroath’s harbor with nary a word said, but a niggling doubt suggested it would not be that simple.
Once the service ended, they rose to leave. A quick look toward the rear of the sanctuary told him that Kinloch and the men with him had departed, doubtless in haste.
Outside the church, the snow had stopped falling, leaving the air damp and chill. Kinloch was nowhere to be seen.
For a few minutes, their group lingered with the other parishioners. The minister, glad to have drawn so large a company of visitors, welcomed them in a hearty manner, wishing them a blessed Christmas.
Emily introduced her female guests to the ladies of the church, using the proper forms of address. Suddenly they were Lady Ormond, Lady Claremont, Lady Katherine Powell, Mrs. Nicholas Powell and Miss Stephen. Nash and Robbie drew aside as the women of St Mary’s expressed their delight at having so many illustrious visitors from London.
Nash cast his gaze over the crowded churchyard. “Kinloch and his guards might have gone, but I daresay they noticed us.”
Robbie scowled. “I am certain of it. Worse, they have observed our friends.”
“It would take very little effort for them to learn where we are staying. I am concerned our friends are now in danger.” He did not mention Ailie by name, but his stomach tied in knots fearing she could be threatened by one of the rough men guarding Kinloch.