An American in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  Until a few months ago, he’d planned on running the blockade. Then he learned from the factors with whom he was in communication that cotton production had fallen drastically in the last two years as planters were urged to grow wheat, corn, and beans to feed themselves and the Confederate armies. The result was that the cotton crop was a fifth the size it had been before the war began.

  Not only were the southern states not producing as much, but there was so much demand for cotton that prices were astronomical. It was the reason he’d chosen not to go to America.

  Yet now the price Rose had asked was more than fair. He could easily pay her more and still make a profit.

  His English cousin, the Earl of Rathsmere, had purchased the Raven from Lennox for just such an opportunity. Duncan had sold all his English properties and converted the proceeds to gold in preparation for the adventure. But why go through all the trouble, not to mention the danger, if he’d just come back with an empty hold?

  He still had the ship. He had the resources. He had the time, and he certainly had the inclination. He’d do anything to save the mill.

  Rose had a thousand bales of cotton.

  All the documents looked in order. From what he’d learned, she was right. Glengarden cotton had a good reputation.

  “Will you give me a few days to consider?”

  “Of course,” she said, standing.

  Her smile trembled and he wondered how important his decision was to her. Would it make the difference between life and death? He had the feeling it would.

  He watched the door long after she left, wondering what it was about the Widow MacIain that intrigued him so much. He had the feeling she was hiding something. If he said the proper word, would all those secrets come spilling out? Or were they trapped behind her beautiful green eyes forever?

  Chapter 4

  The next afternoon, at exactly two-­thirty, Rose was led to a lovely carriage parked outside the MacIain house. Glynis had come to escort her herself, which meant there was no demurring, no excuses, no last minute illnesses to concoct. Glynis, as pleasant as she was, had a backbone of iron.

  She had a feeling both Glynis and Eleanor got their way when they were adamant. In this, Glynis was most definitely insistent. Rose was going to tea at Hillshead and would, no doubt, be questioned endlessly about Glengarden.

  She dreaded the afternoon.

  Glynis, however, was oblivious to any of her fears.

  “I want you to meet my father-­in-­law. He’s the most amazing man and so talented. Then there’s Mary, my sister-­in-­law, the sweetest person in the entire world, besides my mother, of course. She’s finally in love and being around her is delightful. It’s been entirely too long for dear Mary to find someone companionable. She kept saying that she would be content to be a spinster for the rest of her life.”

  Good heavens, what would Glynis say if she knew about her true circumstances?

  Hillshead was a three-­story house at the top of a hill. All its white-­framed windows looked like so many eyes, spying on the terrain and below, to Glasgow itself. Built of red brick, the house was surrounded by green hedges that also lined the paths winding to the double front door. Around the house were giant pines leaning protectively over the roof, as if Hillshead were a tiny creature and the forest determined to protect it.

  For all its size, with its two wings stretching out in the back and framing a series of gardens, it was only a third the dimension of Glengarden. But Hillshead had no slave cabins concealed behind a line of trees.

  She was given a tour, and expressed her genuine awe at the ballroom, the Italian gardens, and other treasures of Hillshead. The house was more richly furnished than Glengarden, and more lavishly decorated, but in ways that startled her. It had a definite nautical theme. The carvings on the doors were of ships, waves, or sea creatures. The paintings in the hallway were of famous ships. Even the tiebacks on the curtains were done with nautical knots.

  It wasn’t until tea that she understood why.

  What Glynis called high tea in the Scottish fashion was a buffet set up in a sunny parlor on the west side of the house. The upholstery on all the furniture was a yellow and red flowered pattern. The walls were lined with a red silk, making the room a bright and cheery place to be.

  Crimson carpet woven in an oriental pattern lay in the middle of the room.

  The mantel and fireplace surround were carved with deer gamboling among the thickets, with acorns on vines thrown in for good measure. At least here, unlike the rest of the house, there wasn’t a ship or sea creature to be seen.

  When she entered, four ­people were already sitting on the various chairs and settee.

  A tall man with black hair that curled at the ends stood up and came forward. His gray-­green eyes crinkled at the corners as if he thought life was a great jest. His cheeks were already shadowed by a beard that gave him a swarthy look. He reminded Rose of her brother Montgomery, who had to shave more than once a day.

  Pain shot through her. Not unexpectedly, because she was often reminded of her brothers in odd ways.

  “You’re Rose,” he said. “I’m Lennox and my chief claim to fame is that I’m Glynis’s husband.”

  “And the very best shipbuilder in the world,” Glynis added, standing on tiptoe to kiss her husband on the mouth in front of everyone.

  That display of affection took Rose aback, but so did Lennox easily wrapping his arm around his wife’s waist and pulling her close.

  “Well, not quite the best,” an elderly voice said.

  She turned to see an older gentleman sitting in an adjoining chair, gripping his cane and staring toward them.

  “Almost the best. He’ll be the best when I go off to that great shipyard in the sky.”

  Lennox laughed. “My father, William Cameron, who is the best shipbuilder in the world.”

  Glynis smiled at both of them. “But we’re being rude. We should have introduced everyone properly. This is my sister-­in-­law Mary and Robert.”

  Rose’s eyes were drawn to a ­couple sitting on one of the settees. Mary had Lennox’s black hair, but her eyes were noticeably greener. Rose immediately had the impression of a fawn, even though Mary looked nothing like a deer. Perhaps it was the gentleness in her eyes, the sense that she could be easily wounded, that had her thinking such a thing.

  Rose smiled at the other woman and said something innocuous about how fine a day it was.

  Robert, who had stood at her entrance also, bowed a little toward her, adding that you could never be certain of Scotland’s weather.

  The weather was always a safe topic, but it was too quickly exhausted.

  She smiled, disposed to like Robert because of his awkwardness. He glanced back at Mary as if for approval, his brown eyes as earnest as a child’s. Two gentle ­people had found each other, and she hoped they continued to be as happy as they looked right at this minute.

  She sat on the settee closest to Mr. Cameron.

  “It’s all a mess, isn’t it?”

  She looked to her left. He was staring toward the center of the room, and it was only then that she realized he was blind.

  “Coming in when you don’t know anyone can be daunting,” he said. “I know the feeling well. For the longest time, I didn’t want to be around new ­people. I couldn’t see them, so I was always confused.”

  “I should think that not being able to see ­people would be an advantage,” she said softly. “You don’t know when they’re looking at you. If they consider you an object of scorn or pity, you’re ignorant of it.”

  The elderly man tossed back his head and laughed as if she’d made the most brilliant comment.

  “You’re delightful, my dear. A true American. Not afraid to say exactly what she thinks.”

  She could feel her cheeks warm. She hadn’t been herself for more than two years. These d
ays in Scotland would always be precious, not simply for the memories, but for reminding her of who she’d once been. The girl who’d argued with Jeremy, her brother, who attended abolitionist meetings every week and cheered and applauded the speakers. That girl had disappeared, and until these days in Scotland, she thought she’d been banished for good.

  Conversation swirled around Rose like fog. She grabbed tendrils of it when ­people tried to include her from time to time and answered as she could. Glynis was right. William Cameron was a fascinating man who spoke of Russia as if he’d spent a great many years in the country.

  When she questioned him as to his expertise, he admitted that he had lived in St. Petersburg for some time.

  “We had our own shipyards there, Cameron and Company, before we sold it and devoted our time here in Glasgow.”

  “What sorts of ships do you build, Mr. Cameron?”

  “I won’t have that. William it is, or I’ll find myself talking to the trifle instead.”

  She smiled, charmed by him.

  “We build blockade runners, Rose,” Lennox said. “We’ve sold quite a few to Fraser Trenholm.”

  She was startled enough that she stared at him. Before she could comment or ask a question, Glynis interjected with a remark of her own.

  “Which means, Rose, that we sell them to the Confederacy. The War Department is not very fond of us.”

  “An understatement,” Lennox said. “We have Union operatives everywhere in Glasgow. They don’t even make an effort to hide themselves anymore.”

  “I had no idea that the war had come to Scotland,” she said, genuinely surprised.

  “Unfortunately, it has,” Glynis said. “However did you meet a man from the South, being from New York?”

  Her accent was not that distinctive. At least not since she’d lived in South Carolina for two years.

  Although she hadn’t expected the question, it was easily answered.

  “Bruce was a friend of my brother’s. They both attended the Military Academy.”

  “So you moved from New York to South Carolina?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It must have been a difficult transition for you,” William said.

  It was like moving from heaven to hell, but how did she say that?

  “Yes,” she said.

  The paucity of her answer may have hinted at how she felt, because William smiled, reached over and patted her hand.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I hope you brought your appetite with you. High tea’s an excuse to eat anything we want to. You can have trifle and cake or roast beef or simply biscuits if you want. “

  She had been hungry for most of the last year. She wanted to tell him the truth, something that rarely occurred. She was not given to sharing her thoughts with strangers, especially when they were of such a personal nature.

  “We’ve all sorts of treats, plus cheeses and fruit. Wine and whiskey and ale.”

  It was the most outlandish collection of foods she’d ever seen. She could have fish if she wanted—­she didn’t. Or porridge with honey. There was leek soup or cucumber sandwiches or cookies—­biscuits, they were called. She ended up having some sandwiches that tasted of salmon, a slice of the most delicious chocolate cake she’d ever eaten, and something called a Tipsy Laird, which reminded her of the tipsy cake the cook used to make at Glengarden.

  It was the most beautiful dessert she’d ever seen: layers of pretty sliced fruit over custard and cake. The cake had been soaked in whiskey, until she was certain she was going to be the tipsy one.

  She was feeling gluttonous and certain she wouldn’t be hungry for dinner.

  “Has the war reached where you live?” Lennox asked.

  She shook her head. “Not yet. Glengarden is not far outside Charleston,” she said. “On the Wando River. There’s a bend in the river that nearly encircles the land. We’re almost an island. We’ve not experienced anything, although from time to time we can hear gunfire. In Charleston it’s much worse. The Union navy is constantly trying to close the port.”

  “Tell us about the American MacIains,” Glynis said.

  “What would you like to know?” she asked.

  The dreaded questions had begun.

  “What’s your household like?”

  Perhaps it was the spirits she’d imbibed that made her answer so honestly.

  “Unusual,” she said. “But perhaps like most plantations lately. Susanna is the matriarch and in her sixties. In the last year she’s been very confused. Some days she thinks it’s an earlier age, before the war began. Then there’s Claire, my sister, and Gloria, my niece.”

  “You have no men in your household?” Glynis asked.

  She shook her head. When no one said anything, she continued.

  “Women are doing remarkable things nowadays. They’re keeping plantations running, growing food and raising their families while men are gone for months, sometimes years.”

  She could just imagine Bruce’s reaction to that.

  When will you get it into your head, Rose, that I don’t care about your opinions? You’re a woman, for God’s sakes. It’s time you acted like one.

  How many times had she gotten that lecture? How many times had Claire looked on with a helpless expression? Strange, she could never remember her sister being so silent in the past. When Claire didn’t like something, she was the first to voice her disapproval.

  Had love changed her sister that much? If so, she didn’t want anything to do with it.

  Claire had changed. The metamorphosis hadn’t been the least bit gradual. Within a day of arriving at Glengarden, she’d noticed that Claire had begun mimicking her mother-­in-­law’s affectations, the strolling walk, the slow speech patterns. Other changes were just as visible, but more troubling: the fact that Claire didn’t seem to notice the dozens of slave cabins behind the house or the fields where men, women, and children worked, bent over in the hot South Carolina sun.

  Claire had affected a helplessness she’d never demonstrated in New York. It was as if moving south had stripped her of every bit of intellect or initiative. What Bruce said was law.

  Rose had first met Bruce when her brother brought him home on leave from West Point. Robert and Bruce were best friends and fellow cadets. Bruce had always seemed a pleasant sort, a young man with more than a little confidence, good bearing, and a bright future. As the MacIain heir, he had a fortune at his disposal, and showered Claire with presents and promises.

  Claire was smitten, transformed from a girl who’d once spoken about marrying one day, to a woman who was suddenly head over heels in love. She couldn’t talk about anyone but Bruce. What Bruce thought, what Bruce had written in his last letter, when Bruce was due to arrive, what Bruce might think of her new dress.

  It was enough to make Rose roll her eyes and escape from her sister’s presence as often as she could.

  Susanna, Bruce’s mother, was a creature from a novel, an overbearing personality with a sly smile, keen eyes, and a voice capable of delivering a tongue-­lashing with a dose of honey.

  She’d only met Susanna at the wedding, an event that should have, in Susanna’s words, taken place at Glengarden, where tradition dictated that all weddings of a MacIain occurred.

  Her father, a strict traditionalist as well, decreed that if his daughter was going to live so far away, she’d at least have her start in married life in the same church where her parents had been wed.

  What might have been a showdown ended happily with Susanna conceding the point. Her father had as much charm as Bruce when he wished. Her father’s character, however, didn’t have a dark side, one that showed the instant the charm stopped.

  Claire hadn’t been interested in the running of Glengarden even after Bruce had gone off to war. The overseer, a man Rose had despised from the first moment she met him, ha
d been tempted away to another plantation, a decision she heartily endorsed.

  He hadn’t been replaced.

  There was no need to punish ­people who simply wanted to be free. Besides, by the time the overseer had left, the final cotton harvest was over. Glengarden’s fields remained fallow and probably would for some time.

  “Do you have slaves?” William asked.

  The five of them were looking at her.

  Her stomach clenched. Maybe she should have had more spirits and less trifle.

  “Yes, until a few months ago. One hundred seventeen men, women, and children.”

  “Children?” Mary asked, her voice shocked.

  She nodded, but she wouldn’t tell them tales of life on the plantation. Those stories were not for such places as this lovely parlor and these innocent ­people.

  “The family has never forgotten their heritage is Scottish,” Rose said. “The males in the family all have Scottish names. Donald died when he was a child, but there was Bruce.”

  “What a pity for a mother to lose her son.” Glynis looked at the far wall as if seeing something from the past. “The war is making widows of a great many women. Did my mother tell you that I lived in Washington for a time?”

  Rose shook her head.

  “I can remember when the war began. We thought it would only last a few weeks.”

  “I remember hearing the same,” she said.

  Bruce’s friends had been the first to declare themselves victorious in the war against the Union. They’d shot their pistols into the air, gotten drunk on Glengarden’s whiskey, and peed in the rosebushes. She’d stayed in her room for days, praying they would take themselves off to war. Instead, they waited nearly a year, during which Bruce had special uniforms sewn and his own flag designed.

  She often wondered if real war was as exciting as the pretend war he played with his friends. Was shooting at the enemy as exhilarating as scaring the slaves with their guns? Were their fancy uniforms still spotless?