Once Upon a Highland Christmas

by Lecia Cornwall

  “Fiona is afraid she’ll be mocked in England,” she said as they set off slowly, accommodating her injured leg.

  “Yes. I considered leaving her here when I go south, but she won’t hear of it, insists on coming with me. It might be for the best. She deserves opportunities, the best education, pretty clothes, like other girls.”

  “And she can’t have that here at Craigleith?” she asked.

  “There are doctors in England.” And there he would be an earl, with power and money to pay them. He glanced down at Alanna. “Don’t tell Annie.”

  “I’m sure Annie would simply tell you that Fiona is a lovely young woman just as she is.”

  “Of course she is. No one thinks anything of her limp here in Scotland. They’ve learned to look past it, see Fiona as she truly is. But I’ve seen the way Marjorie and Penelope look at her, how they talk to her. I couldn’t bear for others in England to treat her that way—­crippled, useless, and foreign.” The way they’d look at him, as well. He felt her fingers tighten on his arm, press slightly. Instinctively, he placed his other hand over hers, a soothing gesture, but who was soothing whom?

  “It will simply take time to get used to a new place, new customs,” she said, “and you’ll be there to protect her. They—­the English—­aren’t entirely different from us.”

  “You say that as if you have recited it a hundred times.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Probably more.”

  “Anxious about your own welcome, my lady? But you’ll be a marchioness.”

  “Still,” she murmured. “It will take time to think of it as home, to see new ­people as family.”

  They reached the top of the stairs, and she paused and took a breath. “This could take some time,” she said, looking down.

  “Not at all.” He bent and put his hands behind her knees and around her shoulders, swung her into his arms. The soft weight of her breast settled against his chest, and she put her arm around his neck and whooped in delighted surprise at his speed as he hurried down the steps, laughing. “I used to carry Fiona down the stairs like that after her injury. She was afraid of steps for a long time after the accident.”

  Alanna sobered and looked into his eyes. “But she got over it, didn’t she? You helped her do that. How?”

  “I stopped carrying her. I took her hand, made her walk.”

  “You made her feel safe.”

  “She’s brave and she’s smart.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs, and still he held onto her, unable to force himself to set her on her feet. She reached up and laid her fingers on his cheek, and the touch went through him like lightning. “She’ll still be brave and smart in England.”

  He scanned her face. “Who will make you feel safe and brave?”

  He saw emotion pass through her eyes, fear perhaps, before she swept her lashes down like a curtain. “Me?” she asked. “I—­”

  “There you are,” Penelope said, stepping out of the shadows. “We’ve all been wondering if perhaps Lady Alanna was still indisposed after all.” Her narrow gaze took in Alanna’s arm around his neck, her face inches from his, noted their whispered conversation. Iain watched as color rose across Penelope’s features like a tide of dye and her jaw tensed.

  “Perhaps we could find you a pair of crutches,” she said to Alanna, her tone tart. “So Iain need not be inconvenienced every time you wish to come down the stairs.”

  Iain felt Alanna stiffen in his arms, watched her smile fade. “And yet it is not inconvenient at all. It is my pleasure to assist you,” Iain told her. He should have put her down, but stubbornly he carried her past Penelope, striding down the hall and into the dining room. He heard the heels of Penelope’s stylish high-­heeled English slippers rap a sharp and angry staccato as she hurried to catch up. He lowered Alanna gently, kept one hand on the small of her back until she steadied herself. Only then did he step back, ignoring Penelope’s glare.

  ALANNA HELD HER breath as Iain swept through the doorway of the dining room. Conversation died as they entered, and every eye widened at the sight of her in her host’s arms. The women at the table stared silently as Iain set her down. She gripped the back of her chair. She squared her shoulders, forced herself to smile, to look at ease.

  “I don’t believe you’ve met my aunt yet. Lady Marjorie Curry, this is Lady Alanna McNabb.”

  Lady Marjorie looked like an older version of Penelope, elegant and well dressed. She regarded Alanna down the length of her patrician nose. Alanna dipped a curtsy, hid a wince as her knee objected to the rules of etiquette. Lady Marjorie inclined her head regally, taking in the details of Alanna’s simple dress. Marjorie, Penelope, and Elizabeth wore silk. Alanna and Fiona wore fine wool.

  “Thank you for the loan of your gown, Fiona. It fits perfectly,” Alanna said, and she watched Fiona beam. She was wearing white wool, with a soft woolen shawl against the chill.

  “You look pretty in red,” Fiona said as Alanna took her seat.

  Penelope sat on Iain’s right-­hand side, across the table from Alanna, watching her with cool curiosity.

  Her gown was pale blue, worn with a collar of pearls—­like Alanna’s wedding dress, still awaiting her at Dundrummie. It reminded her that Penelope, too, would soon be a bride. Iain’s bride.

  “Your dress is lovely—­the pale blue silk suits you very well.”

  “Thank you,” Penelope said through tight lips, as she wasn’t sure if the compliment was genuine. It was.

  “I understand this whole unfortunate incident has made you late for your wedding. Dear Wilfred must be beside himself,” Lady Marjorie said.

  “Wilfred?” Alanna asked, baffled.

  Lady Marjorie put a hand to her throat. “Why, yes—­the Marquess of Merridew’s Chris­tian name. Penelope, did you not say she was betrothed to Lord Merridew?”

  Alanna swallowed, feeling her skin heat as every eye at the table turned on her. She had never heard Merridew’s Chris­tian name before.

  In fact, her gaff only served to emphasize that she knew nothing about him at all.

  “Are you a friend of—­Wilfred’s?” she asked, trying his name on her tongue for the first time. She felt Iain’s eyes on her hot face and didn’t dare look at him.

  “I know his mother very well indeed. I’m sure she must be perfectly enchanted with you, my dear. It’s about time dear Willie married. The duchess says so in every letter she writes to me. How did you find Her Grace when you met her?”

  Willie? If Alanna could not think of Merridew as Wilfred, then “Willie” was even more impossible. Would he expect her to call him by the pet name, or stick to “sir” or “my lord”? She realized she was gripping her napkin in a stranglehold and forced herself to let go.

  “I have not yet met the duke and duchess,” Alanna said quietly. “We were—­are—­to travel south immediately after the wedding, weather permitting.”

  “I see,” Lady Marjorie said and looked down her nose again, suspicion and doubt clear in her eyes.

  Alanna could have cheered when Seonag and Wee Janet entered to serve the meal. The thick stew smelled delicious to Alanna after days on broth and fortifying draughts of goat’s milk and strong ale. She smiled at Seonag and asked her in Gaelic about the babe, knowing Lady Marjorie was still regarding her with keen interest.

  She was rewarded with a wide smile, and Seonag flushed with pleasure. “Annie says it will be only a few days now,” she whispered back, and moved to serve Penelope. Iain’s betrothed made a face at the simple fare.

  “In England, we’d have roast beef, and turtle soup, or roasted pheasant,” she muttered.

  “Oh, we enjoy pheasant here, too, and venison, and beef. Just not every day,” Fiona said.

  Alanna watched as Seonag filled her glass with red wine. “I also hear that you are related by marriage to Kit Rossington,” Lad
y Marjorie said, her gaze pinning Alanna to her chair. “His sister, Lady Arabella Collingwood, is another dear friend of mine.”

  “Lord Rossington recently married my older sister,” Alanna murmured. She felt Iain’s steady gaze on her flushed face.

  “And the Earl of Somerson is kin to you by marriage as well?” Marjorie asked in a marveling tone.

  Alanna was strangling her napkin again. She took a sip of wine. “Lord Somerson’s half sister Caroline is married to my brother.”

  Silence fell over the room and Alanna glanced at Iain, read the surprise in his eyes. He had gone from thinking her a simple Highland lass to discovering she was related by marriage to half the English aristocracy. She was still a simple Highland lass. She raised her chin, desperate to change the subject. She’d grown up as the daughter of a penniless clan chief. The Glenlorne McNabbs had had pride and not much else. When her brother inherited the title, he came home and made careful investments and improvements that made Glenlorne prosperous again. It was due to hard work, not birth or marriage. There was love between Alec and Caroline, and between Kit and Megan as well, for that matter, and that had nothing at all to do with money or title. Only Alanna’s marriage was different.

  She looked at her plate, bit into fresh bread, savored the delicious rabbit stew, and knew she could never call Merridew Willie, even after—­The bread crumbled in her grip, fell into the stew, and she felt an instant of panic fill her chest, making it difficult to swallow, or to smile. The idea of a wedding night with a stranger made her blush anew, sent dread cascading through her limbs. She set her spoon down.

  “Are you well, Alanna? You’re flushed. I could call Annie—­” Fiona began, noting her blush.

  “No, I was just thinking of . . . Christmas,” she said quickly.

  “Nollaig Beag,” Fiona said in Gaelic, then grinned, her eyes lighting like Christmas candles. “It’s my favorite time of year.”

  “It is rude to speak a language not everyone at the table understands,” Marjorie scolded her niece. “You will have to remember that when you’re at Woodford Park. Best to start now, I believe. In fact, I have decided that we shall follow English Christmas customs here this year, since we are all soon to be English.”

  Fiona’s face fell, and Alanna felt indignation rise. She looked at Iain. His hand was clenched on his spoon, his knuckles white. He was looking at Fiona’s stricken expression.

  “We have traditions here in Scotland—­and at Craigleith—­that have stood for centuries,” he said. “There will be time enough to learn English ways.”

  “Still, would you deprive us of our traditions?” Marjorie asked, her lips pinched. “When you’re in England next year—­”

  “Then I shall respect those traditions,” he said. Tension crackled in the air.

  “Perhaps a combination of the two,” Alanna suggested. “The new and the old.”

  “And just how will we do that?” Penelope demanded.

  “Well . . . do you bring in evergreens in England?” Alanna asked.

  “Of course,” Penelope said. “On Christmas Eve, we go out and cut boughs, collect holly and mistletoe, and decorate the great hall at Woodford Park.”

  Fiona looked hopeful. “We do the same here. We tie them with the MacGillivray plaid. What about a Cailleach Nollaigh? Do they do that in England?”

  “What is that?” Elizabeth asked. “Is it something to eat?”

  “It’s a Yule log. It is carved with the face of Cailleach, the winter hag, to keep her—­and the cold winter—­at bay. It brings warmth and joy and luck. Iain carves it, and the face is so real, you’d swear she was among us. He is very good with his knife,” Fiona said proudly. “He makes such wonderful things.”

  “We have Yule logs in England. The men of the household go out and find an ash tree. They take turns chopping until it falls, and then they drag it home. It’s set alight on Christmas Eve and burns for the whole twelve days of Christmas,” Penelope said. “It’s mostly fun for the common folk and the servants.” She looked at Iain with a bland smile. “As Earl of Purbrick, no one will expect you to chop down trees, Iain, or carve them. There’s a woodsman for that, and a carpenter, and their assistants.”

  “It is a tradition I enjoy, and I believe I’ll continue it. Here at Craigleith everyone participates in the Christmas preparations, not just servants and common folk. The men tie ropes to the Cailleach Nollaigh and pull it around the house three times before it comes inside. The children ride on the log. It is a test of strength and time of fun.”

  “Everyone laughs until they fall off,” Fiona said, her face bright again. “We have a party in the great hall on Christmas Eve, and invite all the MacGillivrays to come. There’s piping, dancing, and merriment all night,” Fiona said, her eyes shining.

  “We used to attend a ball at old Lord Wellbridge’s estate when I was very young,” Marjorie said, her tone wistful. “They played the fiddle, not the pipes, and the punch was spiked with rum. The traditions wasn’t carried on after Wellbridge died, and my uncle wasn’t much of a one for Christmas celebrations after his wife and son died.”

  “You’ll enjoy the party here, Aunt Marjorie,” Fiona said. “We’ll teach you to dance Highland reels.”

  Marjorie’s brows shot upward. “You dance, Fiona?” she asked in surprise.

  Alanna watched the joy fade from the young woman’s eyes. “I watch, mostly,” she said.

  “But you join in when you can,” Iain said.

  She looked at him with a sad smile. “When you carry me, let me stand with my feet on yours. Surely I’m too old for that this year,” Fiona said, her cheeks crimson.

  “And it will certainly be out of the question in England,” Marjorie added.

  “Fiona says it is perfectly acceptable for me to dance if a lad asks me. She says everyone dances, even if they haven’t made their come out yet,” Elizabeth chirped.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You are three years from making your debut, Elizabeth. You will sit in the corner and keep Fiona company, along with the rest of the children, and you will go upstairs to bed when the infants retire at nine o’clock,” Penelope said cruelly.

  Alanna forced a laugh. “Oh, but no one sits at a Highland party or goes to bed early. Everyone dances, and no one minds the old folks with their gamey hips, or the bairns with short legs, or the lame, like me,” Alanna said, looking at Fiona. “Fiona and I will dance together, hold on to one another for balance.”

  Fiona laughed, and Iain sent her a shadowed look of speculation.

  Penelope looked horrified. “Bairns—­you mean children? You let children attend the party? It should be a formal event for the quality folk, a ball. Surely the servants and common ­people can have their own celebration in the barn in the village, the way they do at Woodford. No, I must insist. It will be a formal affair, and Iain and I will open the festivities with a waltz. We shall hire proper musicians, too.”

  “No one here knows how to waltz, Penelope,” Iain said flatly. “And I think you’ll find the MacGillivrays are all quality folk, when you’ve met more of us. Donal MacGillivray has been playing the pipes for our feasts and gatherings since his father died. His father played before him, and his father before him.”

  “It would be a dreadful insult not to have Donal play this year,” Fiona said.

  “And a shame to miss the chance to hear such an esteemed piper,” Alanna added.

  Iain smiled at her. “As Sandy would say, Donal could squeeze tears from a stone with his laments.”

  Alanna felt a wave of homesickness, thought of Niall McNabb, Glenlorne’s piper.

  “Perhaps you’ll still be with us for Christmas, Alanna,” Fiona said hopefully.

  “Oh, but that’s many days away yet. Will you keep dear Wilfred waiting for so long?” Marjorie asked.

  The mention of dear Wilfred was like a wet blanket on Alanna
’s merry mood.

  Annie brought in the whisky and set the pitcher on the table with a thump. “It may not be a case of keeping her betrothed waiting—­whether she stays or goes may have more to do with the weather. Sandy is back from visiting Jock, Iain. He says the pass through Glen Dorian is still closed, and there’s more snow coming. Odd, but much of the rest of the hills are free of snow. It seems Craigleith is enduring its very own spate of bad weather.”

  “What does that mean?” Penelope demanded.

  “It means that even though Dundrummie is less than twenty miles away, to get there we’d have to take a much longer journey around the glen to get there—­nearly sixty miles,” Iain explained.

  “Dundrummie, is that where you came from?” Marjorie asked.

  “My aunt lives there, yes, and my mother. My wedding was to have been—­will be—­at Dundrummie,” Alanna said.

  Marjorie made a moue of sympathy. “Then poor dear Wilfred is trapped there, without you?”

  Alanna nodded, the movement jerky, imagining her betrothed red-­faced and angry at her absence, the way he’d been when Megan had run away. Would he stay, wait for her? Her dowry was worth waiting for, at the very least. “I suppose he is,” she answered Marjorie’s question. “My mother and aunt will keep him company until I return.”

  Annie grinned at her from the doorway as she went out. “Is blianach Nollaid gun sneachd,” she said in Gaelic.

  “And what does that mean?” Penelope asked again.

  “Nothing fearsome,” Alanna said. “It means Christmas without snow is poor fare.”

  Fiona grinned. “Then this will be a very jolly Christmas indeed.”

  Chapter Twenty

  IT SEEMED THAT the English side of the family did not spend time with the Scottish half after the meal. Or perhaps, Alanna thought, it was because she was here, a stranger, making things awkward. Tension hummed in the air throughout the rest of the meal, and it was a relief to leave the dining room at last.

  Alanna managed to walk as far as the bottom of the stairs, with Marjorie and Penelope watching her closely, as if they were assessing the severity of her injuries.