Chapter 33
The next days were a whirl of activity, though little of it was Ranulf’s responsibility. Stirling cousins came to Spaethness from Argyll and Perthshire for the wake, and neighbors were in and out of the castle at all hours. Ranulf moved through it in a near trance, welcoming visitors, standing in the drawing room where the coffin lay as family members paid their respects, and approving the details of the funeral feast for the Stirling family, as well as the estate’s tenants. It was only when the first shovel of dirt fell on his father’s coffin in the churchyard that the finality of it came to him. His father was gone, and he was the new Laird of Spaethness. All of the responsibilities that went with it were now on his shoulders, and his alone. He realized, once again, how much he needed Sophy.
After the funeral lunch, and before the last relative had departed, Ranulf was in the stable yard, watching as Sandison tacked up his horse, a strong, dark bay that would have served him well as a cavalry mount during his years in the Peninsula. Under the saddle the groom placed a wool quarter blanket, and bags on either side held a change of clothing, a bottle of whiskey, a loaf of sweet brown bread from the Spaethness kitchen, and small bag of salt. Behind the cantle a heavy winter cape was rolled up and tied, along with an oiled linen cape like those used by the local fishermen. A clay flask carefully placed in a leather bag full of straw held strong sweet black tea and whisky against the chill of the road. Behind Ranulf, another groom was saddling a horse for Grievey, his bâtman.
As Ranulf mounted and pulled the front panels of the quarter sheet up over his thighs, he was thankful for the additional warmth, even though he already wore a wool coat and scarf, gloves, and a hat. There was no snow, but a biting wind blew out of the north-northwest, bringing cold damp air off the ocean, a mere twenty miles away. It did not bode well for easy travelling.
“Do you feel snow in the air, Sandison?” Ranulf asked.
“Aye, that I do, sir. I don’t think you have an easy road ahead.”
“Fortunately, Jock here is built more for stamina than speed.” Ranulf leaned forward to pat the neck of the horse. “He can make the distance easily, and won’t waste his energy or mine with being too forward.”
As he gathered up the reins, and prepared to turn away, Sandison tipped his cap. “See to it that you bring that young lady back to Spaethness, sir. I can’t think of a surer way to do honor to the old Laird’s memory,” he said.
“I have every intention of doing so,” Ranulf replied with a grin, and rode out of the yard, with Grievey in his wake.
They picked up an easy, mile-eating trot as they left Spaethness behind, passing through Arrochar and along Loch Lomond, and down through the hills towards the border country.
“Not as pretty as it was when we came here this summer, is it sir?” Grievey remarked as they led the horses to the edge of the loch to drink.
Ranulf looked around at the brown grass and the sullen grey of the loch before them. Without their leaves, the silver-white of birch bark stood out against the green of the pines, creating the only brightness in the landscape save for the distant snow that covered the tops of the hills above.
“I suppose not, but there is a certain harsh splendor to it. If we had not the grey winter to compare it with, how should we appreciate summer?”
Grievey grunted. “Well sir, I would take the heat and dust of India or Spain over the everlasting dark, cold, damp of winter here. Even in the mountains of Spain, there was a good deal more daylight in winter, and spring came sooner.”
Ranulf chuckled. “If I succeed in my objective, I will take Lady Sophia on a honeymoon trip to Spain, you old villain. You will have to come along, as well as her lady’s maid. Will that please you?”
“That would make a two day ride in the winter seem worthwhile,” Grievey agreed. “I could definitely find it in me to enjoy a glass of vinho roja and a plump señorita.”
The two men led their horses back to the road. The wind had picked up a bit, and Ranulf unrolled the cloak from the back of his saddle, swinging it over his shoulders before remounting.
“Shall we trot?” he asked. “I’m hoping to reach Lanark before we rest.”
As the shadows lengthened in the short winter afternoon, it began to snow in earnest, and the wind whistled around them. But the road remained easily visible, and they continued past dark, finally seeing the lights of Lanark ahead.
Both men were relieved to ride under the arch of the New Inn, to see the ostler ready to stable their mounts. Ranulf left Grievey to help, and went in to bespeak a pair of rooms. They ate their supper in the taproom, and, going up to bed, soon fell into a dead sleep.
The following morning Grievey brought hot coffee up to Ranulf’s room. He pulled open the shutters, looking out with a grim expression. “It’s very bad out there, sir. A good deal of snow fell last night, and the wind is up. It’s still coming down, too.”
“We’re more than halfway there, Grievey. It’s only a matter of forty or so miles now.”
“Aye, but we’ll be walking the whole way, I fear. With all that snow, there’s no trusting the footing. Can’t see a hole under the snow now, can you?”
Ranulf frowned. “I will be at Glencairn for Hogmanay if I have to walk on my own two feet for forty miles.”
“No need for that sir, but it will be a hard ride for man and beast.”
The winter capes and oiled linen covers started the day on the men, for the snow was not only heavier than before, but also far wetter at this lower elevation. Grievey took the pottery flask to the taproom to have it refilled with coffee and whisky before they set off. When he returned to the stable yard, he had more bad news.
“The tapster says that there was a heavy snow south of here over Christmas, and it didn’t melt off. So it’s likely that the snow will deepen as we go.”
Ranulf shook his head. “He simply wants to see a well-breeched traveler stay on another day to spend his money in the taproom and on a good bottle of wine with his dinner.”
“I’m not so sure, sir. I’d like to think that after all these years serving you in different places I know the difference between well-meaning advice, and the words of a man who wants only to line his pockets.”
Ranulf glared at him. “Nothing is going to stop me from getting to Glencairn by midnight for Hogmanay. I lived through the retreat to Corunna and the sieges of Badajoz and Ciudad Rodrigo, I’ll be damned if a forty mile ride to Glencairn in the snow will defeat me.”
Grievey said nothing; he knew when to hold his tongue.
Five inches of snow covered the ground as they left Lanark, but as the road was well maintained, they were able to start at an easy trot. Ranulf grew more confident, thinking that, as usual, the local folk were inclined to exaggerate danger. He was on the verge of saying so to Grievey, when they crossed the River Clyde, and the snow began to deepen quickly, even as the big, wet flakes falling increased in number and size until visibility grew poor. The horses were nearly knee deep in the snow, so it was no longer possible to trot, and they plodded along at a walk. The men shared the flask of coffee, but after a few hours of travel, they called a halt and stopped at an inn to feed and water the horses, while they had a pot of ale and a bowl of soup.
Though it was still afternoon, the short winter day was fading when they started off again. There had been no good news about conditions to the south, and the ever-deepening snow continued to swirl around them.
“Still more than twenty miles to Glencairn, sir, and us not making more than five miles an hour,” Grievey said.
“What of it?” Ranulf replied.
“There’s only an hour and a half of light left, sir. That means at least fifteen miles of traveling in the dark. How are we to find the road with a heavy snow falling, and the wind whipping it up?”
Ranulf didn’t answer, only doing his best to press his tired horse forward a bit faster. Two hours later, as the last faint light was disappearing behind the horizon, they crossed the River Tweed, and
entered Tweedsmuir. Ranulf, for all his desire to press on, could see that both Jock and Grievey’s horse could go no farther, so they pulled up at the Crook Inn. The ostler took the horses to feed, water, and bed them down for the night.
“I need to be at Glencairn tonight,” Ranulf told the head ostler. “Have you a horse for me?”
“I’ve got a horse, but it’s not fit for man or beast out there, sir.”
“I don’t care, I am going to Glencairn tonight. If you will not loan me the horse, I will buy it,” Ranulf replied.
The ostler looked him up and down, and finally came to a decision. “Very well, sir. I have a horse you may use. He’s not particularly handsome, but he has plenty of stamina. You both will need it.”
“Thank you. When the weather improves, I’ll send him back with a groom from Glencairn, who can bring then my horse there, along with Grievey.”
Grievey had been standing by silently, but now spoke up. “Let’s get you a bite to eat, and fill that flask again, Colonel, while they tack up that horse. You’ve got a short ride, but a long night, ahead.”
Fifteen minutes later, they returned to the stables. When Grievey saw the horse with Ranulf’s saddle on it, he burst into laughter.
“Artillery, not cavalry, sir,” he gasped through his chortling.
“He’s got the strength and bottom to walk nearly fifteen miles in this snow,” the ostler said in an offended tone. “Your gentlemen’s hunters look all very well, but they are done for today.”
“Yes, yes, we appreciate his strength and stamina,” Ranulf replied with a laugh, “However, he does look far more like he should be pulling a gun than he does like a trooper’s mount. But no matter, it is dark as Hades out there and nothing but that banshee of a wind to see me on him.”
He swung up into the saddle, and turned to Grievey. “The weather is sure to break soon. I’ll send someone from Glencairn here when I can.”
“Be careful, sir,” Grievey responded, with a little salute.
Ranulf gave him a smile in return and walked the horse out under the archway into the storm.
“That’s a hard man,” the ostler said.
“Like his father before him,” Grievey answered.
“I suppose there’s a woman involved?”
“Never say so. It’s a lady that the master wants to wed.”
“Ah well, he looks like an honest fellow. Good luck to her.”
Grievey watched until his master was out of sight, and then went to the taproom, calling for a mug of ale.
Chapter 34
Once through Tweedsmuir and onto the open road, Ranulf found the going slow. It was difficult to see, as the harsh wind drove the snowflakes into his face. He gritted his teeth and pressed on, grateful when high hedges cut the gale that felt as though it blew through him, or lights from nearby farmsteads made it easier to find the road, and he could move more quickly. He missed a turning, and had to double back, wasting nearly an hour, but, eventually, he found himself at a crossroads that seemed familiar. The wind blew an opening in the clouds and in an instant of moonlight he could read “Dargen” on the signpost, and he sighed with relief.
Ranulf was unsure of the time, but was certain it could be no later than ten o’clock. He gave his horse a nudge, and headed down the road, feeling somewhat certain of reaching Glencairn by midnight. Although the conditions remained foul, the road difficult to follow, and both he and the horse were shivering, his heart grew lighter at the idea of seeing Sophy again. It seemed like only a few minutes had passed, though he knew it must have been at least an hour, when he came to Dargen village, crossing over the little bridge, and noting the village church, candles lighting the nave. The tavern beckoned with light and warmth, but still unsure of the time, he didn’t take the risk of stopping.
Ranulf reached the stone columns that flanked the drive leading to Glencairn Castle, and turned into the lane of thick trees that lined it. They blocked the wind, and he found himself watching the snow drop straight from the sky instead of swirling before him. His horse stumbled with weariness, so he dismounted and walked the last quarter mile.
At last he reached the castle, where the wide stone steps leading up to the heavy door beckoned him. But first he wrapped the horse’s reins around a tree branch out of the wind and opened the saddlebag, removing the whisky, brown bread, and bag of salt. He reached under his cape and placed them in the pocket of his coat before walking to the steps and mounting them. He stood against the wall, his body aching with fatigue and cold, to await the passing of the old year.
Before long his patience was rewarded. Ranulf heard the sound of the bells from the village church peal out at midnight. Now was the time to put his fate to the test. He walked to the massive oak door, and gripped the huge brass knocker firmly before letting it drop onto the plate with a hollow thud.
Inside, the sound of the door knocker could be heard in the Great Hall, where a merry party of the Learmouth family, servants, and their friends Mr. and Mrs. Beattie and their two small children, had just finished joining together to sing Auld Lang Syne.
“It’s the First Foot!” Douglas exclaimed, as MacDonald went to answer the knock.
“He’s here very early,” Glencairn remarked. “Must want to get home in this perishing snow before it’s much later.”
“Who do you suppose it will be this year?” Sophy wondered.
“Perhaps the smith?” Douglas replied. “He’s tall and dark and hasn’t been here for a few years.”
Just then MacDonald returned, followed by a tall, dark gentleman, wearing a wet coat, his hair dripping with melted snow.
“Colonel Stirling,” he announced loudly. “The First Foot.”
Sophy gave a cry of delight and then burst out from the crowd of people staring at Ranulf in amazement and raced towards him, hurling herself onto his chest.
He grasped her tightly and lifted her up, before wrapping her in his arms and kissing her in front of the stunned company.
“You have to marry me now,” he whispered. “You’ve no choice after that display.”
“Oh, I don’t care, I know now that I want you, and did all along. I’m so glad you came here, because I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Ranulf kissed her chastely on her cheek before releasing her, and looked up to see Glencairn approaching. He pulled the bottle of whisky, loaf of bread, and bag of salt from his pocket, and presented them to the Earl.
“A Happy New Year and good tidings to you and yours,” he said.
“And to you,” the earl replied, and then turned to face the crowd. “There are drinks on the table. Take a glass and toast the New Year and our First Foot.”
When everyone present held a glass, Glencairn raised up his and cried “Sláinte!” as the group echoed him.
Then the earl turned to Ranulf and Sophy, looking at them with a question in his eyes. As they smiled at each other and then nodded at him, he turned back to the company. “To Ranulf Stirling and my daughter, Lady Sophia Learmouth, who are announcing their engagement today!”
While the guests clapped and cheered, Ranulf tucked an arm about Sophy’s waist and gazed into her eyes. They clinked their glasses together and whispered the toast to one another. As the celebration continued, they slowly inched to the edge of the group of revelers and slipped into the library. A little fire burned merrily in the grate, and they stood together, Sophy clasped in Ranulf’s arms, her head tucked under his chin.
“I missed you,” she whispered.
“And I you. I let my pride hold me back from writing or coming here. I was a fool.”
“I was so happy to see you standing there with MacDonald. No First Foot has ever brought me better luck for Hogmanay.”
Ranulf lifted her chin with his fingers, and pressed his lips to hers, tenderly at first, and then with mounting passion. He stopped himself with a little laugh. “No more of that. Someone could come in at any moment.”
“We’ll have plenty more opportunities—we h
ave our whole lives,” Sophy whispered, drawing a tender hand down his cheek and across his lips. “What made you come here after me? I wanted you, but I didn’t know what to do.”
“I was miserable after you left, but my pride held me captive until my father, the night he died, told me to bring you back to Spaethness.”
“Your father died?” Sophy asked in astonishment. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Ranulf said. “He had a long life, and went easily, early Christmas morning. He knew that I would come here for you as soon as possible. That may have been the thing that made him feel he could let go.”
Sophy thought of Ranulf’s father, hovering near death, telling his son to find her, and then of her mother, and the strange vision she’d had at midnight on Christmas Eve. It didn’t feel like something she could share with anyone, even Ranulf. But as he took her in his arms again she had the strangest idea that upstairs, her mother was smiling.
Epilogue
Harriet walked into the Glencairn church early on the day before Easter. In addition to the decorations the parishioners had brought to the church for Easter service, there were branches of cherry blossoms bound to the ends of the pew with white satin bows. She ran an expert eye over each of them and then walked up to the altar to examine the flower arrangements there. Beautiful white and pink roses that had been forced in Glencairn’s greenhouses, along with fragrant lilies, occupied large porcelain vases. She touched them with a nod of approval, and, knowing that all was in order, left to prepare for the wedding.
The Highlander's Yuletide Love Page 23