When the moment came to hand over the bottle, she’d tightened her grip, nearly changing her mind. It had meant so much to Jimmy, to her, to Graeme. Could she really trade it? Was she so heartless?
Kate, apparently sensing Meg’s hesitancy, had leaned in and spoken through gritted teeth—“Jimmy’ll kill ye if ye don’t do this thing.” And the guilt dissipated right then, for she was right. Dear Jimmy. He’d at least force her to eat mussel shells for a week straight. So she’d arranged for the pipes to be delivered posthaste to Duncan.
They’d left London and traveled north to Gretna Green to rejoin some of the Tinkers, who’d hopped in the carriage when they learned what happened and made the rest of the journey north by land with them.
So here they were, weeks later. Kate and Mrs. Bettredge stood at Meg’s back, forming a line of witnesses along with Jimmy and Mrs. MacGregor, wee Jemma with her fire-bright hair and ribbon-woven bracelet, the girl’s family, and a minister from Inveraray. All waiting in stillness for what was to come. Castle Cumberave peeked out from the green tree line behind them like a great sentinel.
And then the sound came. Pipes that had long lain dormant, keeping their song for this day. In the distance, a currach appeared. Her brother, rowing the groom who wore his full piper’s plaid. The tune sounded so familiar. She gripped the skirt of her dress—the same heather green she’d worn to the symphony—and remembered. A lilting movement, sounding slightly strange and foreign on the bagpipes, for when she’d heard it, it had been on the strings during the floating symphony in London. “Air,” they’d called this movement.
And as the boat drew nearer, “Air” gave way to something more lively. It spun into her soul and emerged with lively laughter: “Keep Watch, Ye Lads and Lasses.”
“Oh, Duncan,” she laughed into the wind. “Always, I shall.”
Then they were upon them, nearing the shore, and the music took on a slower, more steady rhythm and melody. Meg’s hand flew to her heart and clutched the clan brooch there. The song from the tower ruins—the song heard nightly, sitting beside her mother and father, listening to Duncan play the sun down to its rest each evening. How she wished they could be here tonight.
And with his approach, she remembered her mother’s clear voice and sang along with the pipes under her breath:
“All glory to our Lord and God…for love so deep, so high, so broad…” The words became a prayer of thanks. For such a love as His. Such goodness in creating Duncan and letting her love him. For hope that did not disappoint…and for songs in the night.
The breath went clean away from her when he set down his pipes, stepped into the shallows, and sloshed toward her, gait sure even in its barely detectable unevenness.
She clutched her simple bouquet of heather tied in highland grass—and when he drew near, she tucked a sprig of it behind his sashed wool.
He drank her in as she did, sliding his hand down her long, free hair. “I never told ye, Meg.”
“Told me what?” She took his hands as the minister stepped forward.
“What ye are. The night of the symphony…”
She pressed her eyes closed, remembering the heartbreak in his voice. “Ach, Meg MacNaughton…ye know, don’t ye, what ye are…” And then had come the blow of the trumpet.
She looked into his gray eyes, waiting.
“If a man could pile castles upon seas”—he looked to his right at Cumberave, then to his left at Loch Fyne, and the Irish Sea in the unseen distance—“tempests and ruins upon rivers. Wild horses and forests and country dances and floating symphonies. Heap it all together and tell the world where the treasure in all of it lay…”
Meg’s breath caught. Pictures flooded her mind of each place he listed, and in each one of them, there he was. Strong and true. Waiting for her to open her eyes and see him.
“‘Tis you, Meg MacNaughton.”
She shook her head, lacing her fingers into his. “‘Tis you, Duncan Blair.”
The exchange was so simple and pure, Meg often thought, looking back on the day, that the words were their true vows. For the minister, perhaps sensing the sacredness of what had already been spoken, added only a few more words of wisdom and truth to the ceremony. And what he did add was treasure, too. A prayer, for the hearts being joined this day. ’Twas a union wrapped in light as the sun slipped behind the hills.
Amanda Dykes is a drinker of tea, dweller of truth, and spinner of hope-filled tales. She spends most days chasing wonder and words with her family, who love a good blanket fort and a stack of read-alouds. Give her a rainy day, a candle to read by, and an obscure corner of history to dig in, and she’ll be happy for hours. She’s awed by the strong thread of God’s grace and provision woven through every era and hopes her stories reflect that grace. A former English teacher with a BA in English education, she is the author of the critically acclaimed Bespoke: A Tiny Christmas Tale, and enjoys connecting with her readers at www.AmandaDykes.com.
The Forgotten Hope
by Maureen Lang
Chapter One
New York City
June 1798
Abigail Van de Klerk opened the door to the house she shared with her father on Pearl Street. At this hour, neither of them expected any servants to be up—although keeping Bromley from waiting up for them, no matter the hour, had been a recent accomplishment. She suspected the faithful butler’s door was still open at the back of the house, and he would rest only now, hearing them return.
“Long day, eh?” Father said as they made their way toward the stairs. Neither he nor Abigail paused when passing the hall to the kitchen. Another dinner missed, but sleep was the greater need right now.
“Sleep well, Father,” she said as they went up. She was as eager as he for rest, but at the top step, her father’s voice detained her.
“Abigail, you mustn’t let me depend on you as I did tonight. I say this for your good, not mine.”
As she reached the door opposite his, she offered a half smile, all she could muster. “Ah, but Father, helping you is what I want to do.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. “Still, tonight was particularly nasty. I warn you, darling, in the morning we will have an argument—after we’ve both regained our fortitude.”
She took two steps closer to him and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for the warning. I’ll dream up my defense tonight.”
As she was about to enter her room, she saw him reach for something just inside his door. She knew a small table stood there, the traditional spot where Bromley left important letters or missives. He’d given up leaving notes by the front door, a place Father always rushed past whether coming in or going out.
“Go to bed, Father,” she called. “No letter is more important than your rest.”
He held it up to the light from the moon filtering in from the hall window. “But it’s from that gentleman, the one working with my friend Charles in the West Indies. Perhaps the young man has agreed to join me here in New York, after all. Shall we see?”
With a sigh, knowing he wouldn’t resist, Abigail made a slow approach as he neared the fireplace in his room to light a narrow spill of twisted paper, then the candle’s wick. As he read the letter, she guessed it couldn’t be good news, because instead of a smile of anticipation emerging on his tired but kindly face, he frowned.
“Now that is sad news, sad indeed.”
“He isn’t coming?”
Her father hesitated, finally nodding. “But he is.”
“I thought that would be good news?”
“Only because Charles has died. I’m sorry to hear that. Very sorry indeed.”
“I’m sorry too, Father. I know he was dear to you.”
“But he died serving others, for which he should be proud. I’m proud for him.”
“When is this gentleman coming? This protégé of his?”
“Dr. Tallery says he must see through some cases Charles left to him, but that he should arrive here in New Yo
rk this summer.”
“So there is a silver lining. Perhaps you will sleep, after all.”
“And so shall you, I hope. Good night, dear. Don’t forget our argument scheduled for breakfast.”
She issued a tiny laugh that sounded more like a sleepy sigh then made her way to her own room.
Lizzie, Abigail’s lady’s maid, roused Abigail in the usual way. Abigail didn’t hear a thing until after Lizzie drew back the curtains that let in enough light to instantly wake her. With a stretch and yawn, she mumbled a good morning to Lizzie’s cheery greeting. She was tempted to roll onto her side and stay abed another half hour, or at least complain that three hours was hardly enough sleep, but she didn’t waste energy on something so pointless.
Instead she allowed Lizzie to help her dress, knowing another day’s work waited for both her father and herself. How in the world had Father done this for so many years? He’d been a physician since he turned twenty—some fifty years ago—and learned the art of medicine from his father the same way Abigail and her older brothers had learned it from him. She doubted any one of them had ever seen a consecutive week’s worth of uninterrupted sleep.
Abigail made it only halfway down the stairs before the scent of cooked bacon and eggs obliterated her fatigue. Hunger took its place.
Her father, already seated and served, winked at her as she accepted a full plate from Bromley at the sideboard.
“Today is one of those days when Marta’s excellent cooking skills will be wasted on us both,” Father said instead of greeting her. “I asked Bromley to turn his back while I ignore all manners and eat like a barbarian. I invite you to do the same.”
Looking at the especially large pile of scrambled eggs next to not one but four pieces of bacon—an amount of food she never would have accepted had she not skipped dinner last night—she sat down and proceeded to join her father. Neither bothered to spend a moment on conversation. Instead, she filled and refreshed herself in a way that refined society could never condone.
She’d made quite a dent on the heap of food when Father accepted a second cup of coffee then regarded her with the little grin he seemed always to wear. But this morning the look was accompanied by unmistakable concern.
“I assume you’re feeling fit this morning, despite the lack of sleep?” he asked.
Deciding Bromley had been a bit too generous with the amount of food he’d given her, she set aside what little was left to wipe her napkin at the corners of her mouth. She had just enough room in her stomach for Marta’s strongest coffee, something the cook always knew to prepare on such mornings as this.
“I am. And you? Ready to take another young doctor under your wing, this Dr. Tallery?”
He chuckled. “Dr. Tallery hardly needs my protection—or instruction. I expect Charles finished his training, if any was needed after Edinburgh. He’ll be a great asset.”
She savored her coffee, at last able to taste something now that her hunger was abated. But she knew her moment of enjoyment would soon come to an end. That concern in her father’s eye had wiped away his grin.
“Now, Father,” she began, hoping to forestall the argument she knew he had every intention of initiating. “We discussed long ago how it shouldn’t matter that I’m a daughter instead of another son. In fact, my training is likely more thorough than John’s or Matthew’s, because I began shadowing you from the moment I could walk. Mother, God rest her soul, kept my brothers home far longer than you ever kept me.”
“Only because I didn’t have the time to argue with you. But I’ve been too indulgent of your whims and much too selfish. Goodness, you must be nineteen already, or close to it.”
She was twenty, but she didn’t bother giving him more fuel.
“You opened your own medicine room when you were twenty, Father. Both Matthew and John left home to practice on their own when they weren’t much older. So if age is to be discussed at all, I hope it will only be in terms of my readiness to work independently, should I ever develop such a desire. Which of course I won’t. Age is only important as it relates to experience.”
“Age is another thing entirely as it relates to you. You’re a young woman now. Instead of sending you off to the best school here in New York or Boston, or even in Europe, I’ve monopolized your time. I cannot even remember the last party you attended. Can you?” He sighed, but then his white brows lifted with a touch of horror. “My dear girl, can you even dance? But of course not. When have I given you time to learn? Ah, I’ve failed you.”
“Oh, Father, don’t be ridiculous! I wouldn’t change one single solitary moment of my life working with you.”
“Some work it’s been, too.” His frown deepened. “Amputating an arm and a leg last night was hardly a pretty thing for you to witness.”
“But you saved his life! Who cares about pretty? You did it fast and sure, and that’s all anyone can ever hope for with such an operation.”
“Now we’ve changed the subject,” he complained. “I asked you if you could dance. I suspect you cannot. And so let us begin the argument. Abigail, I’ve taken the liberty of contacting the Pipperday family to ask a favor regarding you and your future.”
“Mindia’s family? Why?”
“Because Mindia’s mother and your mother were the best of friends, and because despite my claim on your time, you and Mindia have somehow managed to be friends. At least that is how it appears when you see each other at church on Sundays.”
“Yes, she’s my friend.” My only one, but she didn’t see fit to add that, either. Arguing with her father was always polite, quite in contrast with the traditional sense of the word. The procedure was also familiar—they would voice their concerns then work out common ground. The last time they’d argued had been over letting her serve at the hospital with him. When he told her even the impoverished patients being treated there instead of in the comforts of home didn’t trust a woman to do the job, she’d convinced him the only way to change such an attitude was to prove herself. Going there on a regular basis, even as little more than a nurse, was the only way to solve the problem. That argument was still ongoing.
This discussion, however, had something new: he’d acted before consulting her, before the actual argument had even taken place.
“What have you asked of the Pipperdays?”
He paused, showing a caution that equaled her own. “I’ve asked them to take you in for the summer. A condensed course, if you will, in all Mindia’s training as a lady. You’re a quick learner, my dear, so that should be plenty of time to—”
“Put myself on the marriage market!” she finished, aghast.
“Well, I wasn’t going to put it quite that way, but yes, that does express the actual goal.”
“How could you?”
Those concerned, ever-so-friendly brows rose in surprise. Raising one’s voice was rarely part of any of their arguments.
“Abigail.” There was a gentle warning in his tone. “I’ll not go to my grave having done you the greatest disservice, that of keeping you from a life of your own.”
“I have a life of my own! I have far more freedom than a hundred Mindias and enjoy doing something important with it.”
“But when I’m gone, who will keep you company? Who will share your breakfast table, your home—your heart? And who will give you children, the greatest joy of my life?”
She stood, rounding the table to reach her father’s side. Taking his hands in hers, she kissed one, whispering, “I’ll get to that in my own time, Father. I promise you the minute I feel lonely, I’ll do as you say and learn to be a society lady. But right now I’m just too busy.”
He stood, too, turning his hands to engulf hers. “I’m sorry, my dear. I am putting my foot down. Mindia will be here tomorrow morning, and Lizzie is already upstairs packing for you.”
“But…But I have a number of visits in the neighborhood today and tomorrow. What about Mrs. Erdmann? Her baby is due any day now.”
“If she wants
you as her midwife badly enough”—he chuckled—“then she ought to have that baby within the next twenty-four hours. Because after that, my dear, you will be enrolled in the Mindia Pipperday private summertime course for one not-so-very-young lady. By the end of summer, with luck and God’s blessing, you ought to already have a particular husband in mind.”
Chapter Two
On a Sailing Ship Leaving the West Indies
Calvin Tallery watched the whitecaps of the Sea of Antilles dance between him and the coast of Saint Kitt’s. The island’s black, jagged rocks shouldn’t beckon anyone to its shore, such an unfriendly guard to the verdant green hills and lush mountains barely visible in the mist. Even now the screech of a coot balanced on one of the crags seemed to say, “Be off! Be off with you!”
Soon the island before him would be a memory. Nothing held him here anymore, now that Charles, his mentor and teacher, his friend, had gone the way of so many before him. Cal would miss the man whose heart was far larger than his own had ever been. Other than him, Cal would miss little else from this place with its wars and riots, fires and floods, hurricanes and earthquakes.
Still, part of Cal would remain amid the hidden pristine harbors and coral reefs, cavorting with the turtles and dolphins and whales, and on land with the island’s improbable population of monkeys. But he would not let himself care.
He turned from the sight before it disappeared, even though he knew it would be the last time he’d set eyes on the place.
“Goin’ home, boy?”
Cal turned to see a sailor standing nearby. He wasn’t looking at the vista; he seemed to have stopped whatever he’d been doing with the heavy coil of rope dangling from his shoulder to address Cal instead. The man was far older than most sailors, his tanned skin thick and leathery, white whiskers sprouting in uneven patches along a jawline that, despite his wiry form, now sagged.
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 22