Betting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  Peter let out a loud belch and mumbled, “S’cuse me,” more to himself than to anyone else in the room. Strange for a groom to have such good manners, he thought absently.

  The belch roused the men from their temporary stupor. Hamish went back to turning the grain with the rake, and Peter collected the basket from the floor. His distended stomach looked comical on his skinny body.

  “Give my thanks to Miss Caya for the delicious pasties,” he said.

  “Och, I almost forgot. Miss Caya said to say…”

  He waited motionless while Peter stared into space with his mouth open. “Well? Out with it. What did she say?”

  “Oh, I remember now. She said she’s sorry and that all’s forgiven. Do ye ken what she means by that?”

  Declan drew up to his full height. He felt a smile break out all over his face. “I do.” He called to Hamish over his shoulder, “Back in a trice.” Then he gestured to Peter. “Follow me.”

  He and Peter left the shed and walked a ways up the hill to a fallow field undulating with wildflowers. Was she simply sorry they’d had a row, or had she flung open the door to marriage? Either way it didn’t matter to him. She had sent him a gift. That had to mean something good. He’d give her flowers in return. Gowans, of course. Gowans—daisies—had to be the most potent flower in God’s garden. They’d worked when Hamish courted Margaret. They’d worked when Alex courted Lucy. Surely, they would work for him.

  He picked a fistful and placed them in the basket Peter was carrying. “Give these to Miss Caya from me. Then come see me this time tomorrow, aye.”

  “Am I your cupid?” Peter asked, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Swenson told Miss Caya I could be her cupid. Do you know what’s a cupid?” The boy’s adolescent voice broke on the word “cupid.”

  He chuckled. “A messenger of love.”

  “Yeck.” The gangly groom made a face and pointed a warning finger. “Dinnae ask me to do any of that kissing stuff.”

  “Dinnae fash, laddie,” he said. “Leave me to do the kissing stuff.”

  …

  Caya sat on a boulder at the edge of the River Forss and waited. And waited. And waited. Growing bored, she found a stick and used it to poke at pebbles and scratch swirls in the muddy bank while she sang “Sweet Nightingale” to herself.

  Pray sit yourself down

  With me on the ground,

  On the banks where sweet primroses grow.

  We will hear the fond tale

  Of the sweet nightingale,

  As she sings in those valleys below.

  Having exhausted all the lyrics she knew, she rose and paced the river bank. She had followed the young groom as far as this shallow crossing, then watched him stumble down a long dirt path and disappear over the ridge. Peter said this was the secret path to Declan’s whisky distillery. Not much of a secret if Peter knew the way. He promised he’d be no longer than an hour. The way he salivated over the basket, she worried the pasties might not make it to Declan before being devoured by the boy along the way.

  She would have liked to have made the delivery in person so she could watch Declan enjoy the pasties, but Mrs. Swenson had cautioned her. The men will work half naked, a braw sight, but not for a maid. Caya didn’t know the exact meaning of the word “braw” but gathered it meant something good. What would Declan look like without his shirt? Something fluttered inside her chest, reminding her not to think wicked thoughts.

  Female laughter floated in the air. Seeking the source, she leaned out over the river’s edge. About forty yards down river, a group of women was washing laundry on the opposite bank. She could go introduce herself. Chatting with the other women would make the waiting go faster, but she might miss Peter on his way back.

  Wherever was the boy? He’d been gone way more than an hour. Had she missed him somehow? She shaded her eyes and fixed her gaze on something moving in the distance. Peter running along the path, his dirty hair sticking every which way, legs churning, and the basket snugged under one stick-thin arm. She waved to him. He waved back, tripped over a stump, and tumbled ass over teakettle. Peter landed spread-eagle on his back in the middle of the trail and didn’t move.

  “Oh dear.”

  Caya lifted her skirts and waded across the river, soaking her boots through to her stockings. By the time she reached Peter, he had picked himself up and was examining his skinned elbow.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Oh yes, miss. I fall all the time.”

  “Let me see.” He had a scrape, bleeding only a little, but covered in dirt. “Let’s go clean that wound in the river.”

  “Wait.” In his fall, the basket had upended. Its contents, daisies, were strewn about on the path. Peter collected them and handed her the mangled bunch. “These are for you from Mr. Declan.”

  “Thank you.” She accepted the flowers and bobbed a curtsy, and Peter bowed to her with a flourish. Who on earth had taken the time to teach a groom the manners of a gentleman?

  At the river’s edge, she dipped a corner of her apron in the water and dabbed at Peter’s elbow.

  “So, did Mr. Declan like the pasties?”

  “Oh, aye. We ate them all.” He patted his belly with his free hand, then jerked his gaze back to his elbow and hissed.

  “I’m sorry it hurts, but I have to clean the cut or it may fester.”

  The chatter from the women doing laundry caught her attention again. The tone had changed from relaxed to frantic. Screams of distress. Calls to God. She scrambled to her feet.

  “What’s that?”

  “Dinnae ken,” Peter said.

  She started toward the commotion, walking slow at first and then faster.

  Following on her heels, Peter said, “I think we shouldnae bother them, miss.”

  “Something’s wrong. They might need help.”

  Ahead, five women shin-deep at the river’s edge were bent at the waist, peering into the water, searching, calling. An agonized cry halted the commotion, and a woman pulled a small body from the water.

  Caya ran. Oh God. Oh dear God, no.

  From behind her, Peter shouted, “Miss Caya, where are you going?”

  The woman slogged out of the river, her child’s limp and dripping body clasped to her chest. One long, low, mournful cry rolled out of her. The sound trailed off, but her face remained frozen in a rictus of pain.

  None of the women spared Caya a sideways glance when she entered their circle. They were focused on their anguished friend, holding a little boy no older than two. Why wasn’t the mother trying to save him? Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? Someone should try reviving the boy. It might not be too late.

  “Do something,” she said, her words disturbing the air of grief surrounding the mother. “Someone, do something.”

  She felt a tug on her arm. “Please, miss. Come awa’ with me,” Peter said in a hushed tone.

  A collection of startled faces turned toward her, noticing her for the first time.

  “At least try.” Her voice sounded shrill and desperate. She looked from one confused face to another. Meanwhile, the mother moaned and rocked the child, oblivious to anyone else.

  A woman with white wispy hair said, “What’s wrong with you? Can you no’ see he’s gone?”

  “He may still live.” Caya darted looks from woman to woman. “Doesn’t anyone know how to revive a drowned man?” They answered with wary stares. “I’ve seen it done. I know it’s possible.”

  She had seen someone attempt a revival. A man had been pulled from the water by his fellows, and they’d made him breathe again.

  “Let’s go, miss,” Peter said more urgently.

  Caya spoke without thinking. “Lay the child on the ground.”

  The mother paid her no mind, her moaning having turned to hysterical sobs.

  The white-haired woman gave her a hard look. “Why? What good will that do?” She seemed resentful of her intrusion.

&nbs
p; “At least let me try to revive him.” She reached for the child. “It might not be too late.”

  The mother turned frightened eyes on her. She stopped her sobbing long enough to ask, “Can you bring him back?”

  “He may yet be alive. If so, it’s possible. I might fail, but at least let me try.” She gently took the child from the mother’s arms. He was heavier than she imagined he would be. And cold. She had to work quickly. The revivals she’d witnessed were vigorous, almost brutal on the victims. This was a small child. She risked injuring the boy if she was too forceful.

  She laid the boy facedown on the grassy bank, turned his head to the side, and pressed on his back. Water trickled out of his nose, but she didn’t hear the life-affirming intake of air. She tried again. Nothing. She instructed the mother to cover him with her shawl. “Rub his arms and legs. Make him warm.” The mother went to work immediately.

  She felt Peter at her elbow. He whispered into her ear. “This isnae a good idea.”

  She ignored him and said to the others, “Say the Lord’s Prayer out loud. When you finish, the boy will either be with the living or with God.”

  The women began, “Our Father which art in heaven …”

  She rolled the child on his back, pinched his nose, and blew into his mouth.

  “…Thy will be done…”

  Someone shouted, “What are you doing?”

  “Keep praying,” Caya said, and blew into the child’s mouth again.

  “…Forgive us our debts as we forgive…”

  Caya paused, listened, nothing. She said her own silent prayer asking God to grant her the strength to save this boy.

  “…Lead us not into temptation…”

  She breathed into his mouth once more.

  “Amen.”

  Silence. The boy’s body remained still, pale, lifeless.

  Please, please, please. Dear Lord, spare this one. Please.

  The mother began her wailing again. She had failed. God had been deaf to her prayer.

  Peter tugged at her sleeve. “Come away with me now, miss.”

  She attempted to comfort the mother. “I’m sorry. I was too late.”

  Ignoring her, the woman continued to keen over the boy’s body with a high-pitched howl that cut through Caya’s soul.

  Suddenly, the child’s body convulsed. The women made a collective gasp. She turned the boy on his side. He coughed, spit up, coughed again, and started to cry, the most welcome cry she’d ever heard. She fell back to leave room for the mother to gather the boy in her arms. The mother repeated nonsense into the boy’s ear while he clung to her neck and howled.

  At last, Caya got to her feet, shaken and drained from the last few minutes. The other women, the white-haired one in particular, stared at her with an assortment of looks—most of them of horror. A prickle crept up the back of her neck. Her efforts to save the child were obviously suspect.

  The white-haired one hissed, “What kind of trickery was that, bringing the dead back to life?”

  “The boy wasn’t dead. I only helped him to breathe again.”

  The white-haired woman spat on the ground and said something in Gaelic.

  “Come. Now.” Peter grabbed her hand and pulled. He sounded frightened. She saw the wisdom in his words. She had best leave now before sentiment turned violent. Peter led her away with a breathless, “Dinnae look back. Just keep walking, miss.” She wanted to run but made herself walk.

  When they reached the narrow river crossing well away from the laundry party, Peter let go of her hand, and they paused to catch their breaths.

  “Who were those women?” she asked.

  “They’re from a fishing village called Scrabster. Presbyterians. They dinnae take to outsiders. You shouldnae have interfered.”

  “But what else could I do? I had to try. If I hadn’t that boy would be dead.”

  “Most likely they saw what you done as witchcraft. You best stay far away from those women. I dinnae trust them at all.”

  Peter was right. What she had done was risky. The child could have died and those women might have blamed her. The experience served as a strong reminder that she was a stranger here, an outsider.

  Peter retrieved her basket of flowers and helped her across the slippery river stones and up the riverbank to the path that led to Balforss. Her stockings were soaked to the knees, and they both made rude squelching sounds as they walked. Wanting very much to put the unpleasantness behind her, she fussed with the daisies to keep her mind off the ugly business with the women.

  “What did Mr. Declan say when you gave him my message?”

  Peter’s face lit up. “He said they were the best thing he ever et. I ken he was happy and then we went to the field to pick the gowans.”

  “Gowans? You mean flowers?”

  “Gowans are a kind of flower, ken? Like these with the yellow centers and white bits.”

  “They call these flowers daisies where I’m from.”

  “Where are you from?” Peter asked. He picked up a stick and, using it like a sword, jabbed and swiped at some invisible foe.

  “Have you ever seen a map of the British Isles?”

  “Miss Lucy showed me in a book once. Balforss is at the very top of Scotland.”

  “I’m from a place called Cornwall at the very bottom tip of England.”

  “Is that a long way?” Peter held the branches of a bush for Caya to pass.

  “A long way by boat. An even longer way by foot.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “In many ways, Cornwall is a lot like the Highlands. The land looks similar. The people look the same. There’s lots of fishing villages and sheep farms. We even have an old Cornish tongue just like you have the Gaelic.”

  “Do you have pirates?” Peter asked, round-eyed.

  “Yes, actually. Penzance, the village where I’m from, has a long history of pirates and smugglers. Not so much anymore.”

  “Did you ever see one?” Peter’s interest had turned feverish.

  She hated disappointing him, but she couldn’t lie. “No. I’ve never had the pleasure. Have you?”

  “No, but Mr. Alex saw land pirates once. He said they were a lowpin’ lot.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Ugly and smelly.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I’ve often heard pirates described as such.”

  They were quiet for the rest of the way back. No doubt Peter was daydreaming about pirate adventures. When they arrived at the kitchen door, she thanked the boy for running her errand.

  “Nae problem at all, miss. I told Mr. Declan I dinnae mind being the cupid as long as I dinnae have to do any kissing stuff. Will you be sending pasties every day, miss?” The hope in his question was unmistakable.

  “I don’t think Mrs. Swenson will like sharing her kitchen every day. Oh, and…” She caught him by the arm before he slipped inside the kitchen door. “Perhaps you shouldn’t mention the Scrabster boy to anyone until I’ve told Laird John.”

  “Aye, miss.”

  Lucy swooped toward them, swathed in lavender satin with Hercules bounding joyously at her side. “There you are. You’ve been gone for hours.” She bent a low curtsy to Peter, and he made his courtly bow to her. “Well done, Peter. You’d better go inside or you’ll miss your dinner.”

  Peter bowed to Caya. “It’s been my infinite pleasure, miss,” he said, and scampered into the kitchen.

  “Did you teach him that?”

  Lucy beamed. “He’s quite the little gentleman, isn’t he? When he bathes and dresses in his best, you’d never know he was a stable boy.”

  “What was your purpose?”

  Lucy shrugged. “It started out as a game when he had a case of the mumps—a way to cut the boredom. Then I thought, why not teach him to behave like a gentleman? He may not want to be a stable boy for the rest of his life.” Lucy cocked her head. “Caya, are you all right? Did something happen?”

  “No, no. I’m fine.”
>
  Lucy glanced at the contents of Caya’s basket. “Daisies?”

  “Yes. Declan sent them.”

  Lucy craned her head forward and asked her incredulously, “He sent you daisies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Caya, dear, do you know what that means?”

  “He liked my Cornish pasties?”

  Lucy made an impatient face as though she were dealing with a simpleton. “In the language of flowers, daisies mean true love.”

  “Really?” She had never heard of flower language.

  “Don’t you see? Declan is trying to tell you he loves you.”

  “Oh.” Something inside her—something she had no name for—opened and spilled a warm sensation across her shoulders and down her body. Declan had sent her a message of love.

  …

  Less than an hour after Peter had left, Declan’s sister Margaret arrived at the malting shed with dinner. He put his shirt on, a useless measure to shield himself from his sister’s wrath.

  “Sorry. I would have told you had I known.”

  “And what am I to do with this?” Margaret punctuated her question by setting a cast iron kettle on a stool with more force than necessary. Her kertch was on askew, and wild coils of black hair sprang out from under. Tall and rawboned and red in the face, Margaret fired a look at Declan he knew well. She had been pushed past the limit of her patience, and there would be no reasoning with her.

  Declan and Hamish exchanged glances. His brother-in-law looked as frightened as he felt. They were both sorry cowards—bawfaced fearties, the two of them. Hamish, the braver of them, took a wary step toward his wife. “It smells good, love. Is it the lamb stew you’ve made?”

  Margaret jammed her fists on her hips and turned her black glare on Hamish. “I suppose you’ve stuffed yourself as well?”

  Hamish was an inch shorter than his wife. He shrank another inch and took two steps back.

  “Did you no’ beg me this morning to bring you some scran for the midday lest you perish?” she said, her curls vibrating with anger. “And me, fool enough to take pity on you, spending all morning slaving over the fire, wrapping the heavy kettle so’s it stays warm, and walking all the way from the cottage bearing victuals for my men, only to find you’ve filled your gluttonous bellies with someone else’s food.”