Betting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  “Oh, aye?”

  “I demand to see my sister now,” Jack said.

  Declan turned a deaf ear to Jack and continued his conversation with Hamish. “The bastard is Caya’s brother, my future brother-in-law.”

  “He’s also a thief,” Hamish said.

  “Are you listening to me?” Jack shouted.

  “True, but put yourself in my place,” Declan said. “I’m your brother-in-law. Would you turn me over to the law?”

  Hamish rubbed his chin as if considering the notion.

  Declan chuckled. “Right, but even if you could catch me, how do you think Margaret would react?”

  “She’d skin me alive.” Hamish nodded. “I see your point. Would you have me turn him in for ye?”

  Jack screamed at the top of his lungs. “I said, I want to see my sister now!”

  “Quiet!” Declan barked. He turned back to Hamish. “Nae, but thanks. In any case, I cannae let this”—he jerked a thumb at Jack—“complication make us lose a day of whisky making. With the rain last night, the malt is liable to mildew.”

  “True. We need to grind the malt today or risk losing the entire harvest.”

  Declan pressed his lips together, considering his next move. “Fine then. Only one thing to do.” He spun around and stormed toward Pendarvis.

  Jack backed away. “No. No, wait,” he said, cowering like a child. He stumbled over a clump of grass and fell on his ass. His foolish hat toppled off his head, and Declan crushed it under his boot.

  He reached down and pulled Jack to his feet, shook him once, and released him. “You have a choice, Mr. Pendarvis,” he said, careful to keep all traces of rage from showing on his face. “You can work for me or go to the magistrate’s office. Which will it be?”

  Jack straightened his jacket with a tug. “Neither. I am a gentleman and demand to be treated—”

  “Which one?”

  “Gentlemen are not born to labor like common—”

  “Hamish, tie him up and take him to the magistrate.”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Teeth on edge, Jack capitulated. “Fine. I’ll work.”

  Hamish instructed Jack to lug sacks of grain from the malting shed to the mill. The Scots suffered through nonstop complaints, groans, and curses until the man’s whining became background noise to the loud process of grinding the malt for the mash.

  At midday, Declan sent Hamish home for food and to let Margaret know all was well. His gnawing hunger only compounded his irritability. The fact that Jack, having consumed the contents of his pantry, was the cause of his hunger, made him hate the man more.

  “Where’s the whisky?” Jack asked.

  “You drank it all.” The memory galled Declan.

  “No. Where do you store your whisky?” Jack addressed him as if he were a halfwit.

  “This is our first making. It willnae be suitable to drink for three years.” Jack must truly think he was a numpty if he expected him to say where he kept his cache of aging whisky.

  Desperation in his voice, the man persisted. “I’m parched. I need something to drink.”

  “Hamish will return with ale, no doubt.”

  Jack made a derogatory snort and tripped over the bag of oats he’d just set down. What the hell was he going to do with the man? He was about as welcome as a turd floating in the beer. And how did he and Caya come from the same sire? They were so different.

  “Did you wed my sister as you promised?” Jack asked him.

  “I will.”

  “Where is Caya? What have you done with her?”

  “Stop pretending you care a whit about her.” The man had no right to speak her name, much less inquire after her.

  “I want to see her.”

  “She doesnae want to see you. And if you go near her, I swear I’ll tear out your throat with my teeth.”

  Jack turned back to his work, mumbling something about Scottish savages.

  Declan would be damned if he would upset Caya by bringing her brother to Balforss. Worse, she might forgive Jack and want to keep him. The thought of having to look at the man, speak to him, work beside him every day, made him want to retch.

  Hamish returned with food, and they found a shaded spot near the river to eat. Jack drank off his ale in one go, then stuffed his face with Margaret’s cottage pie. It was the first time he’d been quiet all day. Declan’s mood improved once he’d eaten. He even laughed at one of Hamish’s bad jokes.

  Hamish jerked his thumb in the direction of the Cornishy whelp having a piss in the bushes. “Have you decided what you’ll do with Gentleman Jack over there?”

  Declan sighed and closed his eyes. “I need to find a place to stash him until I can locate a boat that’ll take him as far away from here as possible.”

  Hamish lifted both hands and shook his head.

  “Nae, I wouldnae do that to you and Margaret,” he assured his brother-in-law. “Besides, your place is too close to the big house. No. I have to get him off the property.”

  They were quiet for a while as they watched Jack Pendarvis pour himself another tankard of beer and then slop it on the ground when a bee startled him.

  “I’ve an idea,” Hamish said.

  “Oh, aye?”

  They both continued to stare at the Bee versus Man dumb show taking place before them.

  “Do ye ken Mr. Kinney what runs the public house in Scrabster?” Hamish asked.

  “Neil Kinney?”

  “That’s him.”

  Jack dropped his tankard on the ground and flailed both arms at the bee.

  “For the price of a cask of your best, he’d keep yon loon pickled and out of sight until the next free trader comes through.” Hamish applauded when a sharp cry signaled the bee had won the battle.

  Declan liked the idea. For the first time that day, he believed things might work out to his advantage. By month’s end, if all went according to plan, Jack Pendarvis would be out of his hair, and Caya would be his wife.

  Declan got to his feet. “Thanks, man. That’s what I’ll do.”

  …

  Caya followed Flora and Lucy up the gravel path toward the church. They passed a knot of women who fell silent and turned their backs, the same women who had been so welcoming last Sunday. Had she imagined the snub? And where was Declan? She needed to speak with him about her brother.

  Another woman crossed herself and pressed her child behind her—a gesture that looked suspiciously like she was shielding the boy from her. Or was Caya being overly sensitive since Friday’s encounter with the Scrabster women at the market? She could be mistaken.

  Once inside, she scanned the dozen or so heads already seated. Where was Declan? He hadn’t met her outside the church as he had last week. She swept past a fat man who made a disapproving sound. The grunt was meant for her. There was no mistaking it. Then someone whispered, “Witch,” and her heart took off at a gallop. Where was Declan? He should be here with her, by her side, to protect her from these people as he had promised. Why wasn’t he here? Had something happened?

  Or was he still searching for Jack? Upon waking this morning, Caya realized she had asked too much of Declan. She was wrong to beg him to save her brother, especially after Jack had attacked poor Peter. Asking him to intercede on Jack’s behalf—on her behalf—was selfish and put Declan in danger, compounding her guilt and adding to her mounting pile of wrong-doings. Now that she was thinking clearly, she wanted to retract her request, but where was he? She needed him here.

  Flora and Lucy slid into the pew and made room for her to join them. She paused at the end. Once seated, she would be trapped. No way to flee from the suspicious stares of the congregation. Did everyone think her a witch?

  Lucy patted the space next to her. “Ignore them.”

  “Where’s Declan?”

  “Making whisky, most likely. Sit down.”

  Whisky? How dare he make whisky when she needed him here with her. Her fear molded into anger. Odd how the two emotions felt almost the sa
me. Caya took the proffered seat next to Lucy and reminded herself she was in church. No place for anger. No place for fear. She took a deep breath and tried to pray. When the processional began, the screech of Mr. Donaldson’s fiddle drove a spike of pain through her forehead.

  It was Whitsunday. Pentecost. She gathered the frayed ends of her nerves and listened to the sound of the vicar’s voice rather than his words. Soothing. Calming.

  Alex sat next to her, looking the proud father with Jemma in his arms. She’d never known a man to be as engaged in the care of his child as Alex. She’d even seen him change the baby’s napkin. Twice. Were all Scots as demonstrative, or was it only the Sinclair men who exhibited the trait? In any case, she was glad for the distraction sweet Jemma provided.

  She rose with the congregation and sang “Away with Our Fears, Our Trouble, and Tears.” It was one of her favorite hymns. She knew all the verses. The congregation sang the first verse with confidence, then stumbled through the second before stopping altogether. Not everyone in church had a prayer book. No one had hymnals.

  It came to her with a rush of clarity. That’s what she would do. She would write down the lyrics she remembered from her favorite hymns and make copies for the members of the choir. Laird John would provide her with ink and paper. If not, surely Vicar James would find the necessary supplies. Four copies would be enough to start with. People could share. And…

  The quality of Vicar James’s voice changed from soothing to deep and booming, the kind of voice that demanded her ear.

  “It has come to my attention that many members of our congregation believe in witchcraft. Witchcraft!” He smiled and people laughed. A few glanced in her direction. She wanted to hide.

  “Absurd, is it not? My parishioners speaking of witchcraft? You might ask yourself, ‘Why would the vicar mention witchcraft in church?’” He pulled the corners of his mouth down and made a face. More nervous giggles. “I will tell you.” He paused, waiting for quiet. “Because I hear nothing but talk of witches among you. No talk of our Lord. No talk of our Savior. No talk of good deeds. Only talk of witches.”

  He paused again for a few uncertain titters this time. Then Vicar James slammed his Bible shut with a crack and shouted, “Blasphemy!”

  Caya flinched, as did most everyone in church. He cast a critical eye over the crowd like a disapproving schoolmaster. Mouths hung open, not knowing what to make of the vicar’s outburst.

  “I would expect this from the simple folk of Scrabster. Poor. Uneducated. Taught to fear anything they don’t understand. But from people of privilege, people who know better, people like you?” His face turned an angry red, and his eyes glowed like twin torches of fury. “Outrageous. Your talk is for no one’s benefit but your own idle entertainment. Worse, you chatter at the expense of the innocent. I am ashamed by your behavior, and you should be ashamed as well.”

  The vicar paused, breathing hard. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. His jaw muscle flexed and jumped. “A young woman new to us performs what seems like a miracle, using knowledge gifted to her by God. Knowledge we lack.” He was shouting now. “And the way we thank her is to spread unfounded rumors about her, blacken her good reputation, and assign wicked motives to her actions.”

  Caya glanced around. No one was looking her way now. Many dipped their heads and closed their eyes. Others still had faces frozen with astonishment. These people had probably never seen their vicar angry before.

  James banged his fist on the pulpit. “Why spread these lies? To make ourselves seem superior? Holier? To tarnish her spotless soul so as to make ours seem cleaner? Why would we do such a thing?” In a tone that might as well have come from the heavens, James raised the Good Book. “What does the Lord have to say about such behavior?”

  He flipped the Bible open to a marked page. “‘They are filled with unrighteousness, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity; whispers.’” He paused to breathe, then leaned out over the pulpit, and in a voice low and deadly, said, “Search your souls. Confess your sins. Ask for forgiveness and remember Him always. Above all, recognize His gifts and give Him thanks.”

  James said a short prayer, crossed himself, and stepped away from the pulpit.

  Perfect silence. Not a rustle of skirts. Not a scuff of a boot. Not a cough or a sneeze. Everyone seemed to have stopped breathing. Then, with the perverse timing characteristic of all toddlers, Jemma shattered the silence with a shriek. Standing on her father’s lap and facing him, she clapped her hands on his cheeks, repeating, “Da, da, da, da, da.”

  A smattering of nervous laughter broke the tense atmosphere in the room.

  “Thank you for reminding me, dear Jemima,” Vicar James said, smiling, his good nature somehow restored. “We have not one, but two baptisms on this auspicious day. Will the parents and godparents please come forward?” The congregation made a collective sigh. Everyone loved a baptism.

  She hadn’t needed Declan by her side after all. Vicar James had come to her defense in a way Declan could not. Declan might have intimidated the nasty wagging tongues. But the vicar had swept aside the rumors and shamed the gossipers into silence. James had been her champion today.

  Following communion, Vicar James made an announcement about the formation of a church choir. “Anyone interested in taking part, our first meeting will be held here this coming Saturday at one in the afternoon.” He gestured toward the Sinclair pews. “Miss Pendarvis has accepted my request to lead the choir.” He sweetened the offer with, “And Mrs. Swenson will provide refreshments at the first meeting.” His charm having returned, Vicar James added, “You won’t want to pass up Mrs. Swenson’s molasses cakes.”

  After church, Caya found the vicar outside, talking to an older couple. She lingered until he was finished and then approached him. He looked down on her with an apologetic smile.

  “I expect those words were for my benefit,” she said.

  Vicar James pulled his chin in and furrowed his brow. “Absolutely not. Every member of my congregation needs an occasional talking to about the sin of gossip.”

  The blood rose in her cheeks at his teasing. She looked down, hoping her bonnet would conceal her reaction. “Even so, thank you.”

  “It was my pleasure to be of service to you, Miss Pendarvis.” The playful tone had left the vicar’s voice. She looked up. He was watching her intently. He spoke again, but Lucy interrupted them.

  “Caya, darling, Mother Flora is looking for you.” Caya curtsied low to Vicar James. As she left them to look for Flora, she heard Lucy say, “That was the most entertaining homily I’ve ever heard.”

  Caya met Flora with the other women of Balforss by the church gate. “Lucy said you wanted to see me.”

  “Aye. I’m sending Alex to fetch Declan for supper. I thought I’d check with you first in case you’d rather I ask someone else?” Flora flicked her gaze toward Vicar James.

  Flustered, she tripped over her words. “No. The vicar—Declan. I mean—”

  “Take a breath, dear.”

  She did and found her composure. “I’d be happy to see Declan at supper. Thank you, Flora.” Worry over her brother still plagued her. She needed to speak to Declan.

  “Very well,” Flora said. “Wait for me in the wagon.”

  Lucy was the last to wedge herself into The Crate. With the six women squeezed into place, Flora signaled Ian to drive on. A sharp whistle, a snap of the reins, and they were bumping and jostling along the road home.

  “The vicar’s lesson today would rival that of any Presbyterian preacher,” Flora said. “You do know that was for your benefit, Caya. Nae doot quelling the gossip about you rescuing the Scrabster boy.”

  The other women made sounds of agreement.

  She dipped her head. “I thanked him after services.”

  “I spoke to Vicar James, as well,” Lucy said. “He suggested we visit the Presbyterian minister, Reverend Linklater, and little Bobby Campbell’s mother tomorrow af
ternoon.”

  “In Scrabster?” Caya gasped. Visiting Scrabster, walking among those hateful women, even talking to their clergyman, made her shiver. “Why should we do that?”

  “To show them you don’t have horns and a tail, of course.”

  The other women uttered sounds of shock and dismay.

  “Oh, stop it. I’m joking,” Lucy said, piqued. “Why is everyone so solemn? I always feel lighthearted after service.” She brushed away their sounds of disapproval with a wave of her hand. “Anyway, the vicar thinks it’s a good idea, and so do I, but it’s up to you, Caya.”

  She looked down at her gloved hands. She would like this business to be over—to go away for good. “If you and the vicar think it will help, then, yes. I’ll do it.”

  “Good. Vicar James will collect us at the noon hour tomorrow.”

  “I’d feel better if Declan went with us,” she said.

  Lucy turned her blue eyes on Caya like a cat who’d spotted a juicy mouse, and her insides squirmed. “Do you expect him to protect you from the Scrabster women or from the vicar?”

  Everyone in the wagon laughed. Everyone except Caya, whose face burst into flames.

  …

  Declan finished making the mash by early afternoon and was just locking up the distillery when Alex rode up.

  “I came to see your progress,” Alex called, and he hopped down from his favorite horse, a warmblood named Goliath.

  Always glad to see his cousin, Declan clasped his forearm in greeting. “We’ll be ready to fire the pots on Tuesday.”

  “Need help?”

  “I’d be glad of it.” It would be a relief to have another set of hands to work the stills.

  “We missed you in kirk.” Alex gave him a sidelong look, and he wondered what the hell he meant by it.

  “Oh, aye?” he said, fastening the new lock on the stillhouse door.

  “Caya was asking after you.”

  Ah, that was it. Alex meant to nettle him about his affection for Caya. “Did she now?” He’d be damned if he’d give Alex any satisfaction.

  “Ma invites you to supper, if you’ve the time.”

  “Thanks. I will.”