Sarah Gabriel

by Highland Groom

  Chapter 9

  Rain drummed on the windows of the schoolhouse, and the soft squeak and scratch of the chalk added another layer of sound as Fiona wrote on a large, framed slate that was hung on a wall, its weight supported by a heavy shelf beneath. She glanced over her shoulder. The students were seated on their benches, working on the assignment she had given them, copying lists of words from the slate on the wall to the slates they held.

  They were all busy and seemed to concentrate on their work, without any of the rowdy behavior she sometimes saw; they had listened intently that morning, and had seemed happy to be there, laughing and chatting while two girls passed the slates and chalks around and the others found their seats.

  Fiona smiled to herself, and turned back to the large slate to add a few more English words. Beside cat, she drew a cat; beside chair, she drew one of those; for cradle, she drew that, too. Behind her, chalks squeaked over slates as they copied the list.

  The glen school was flourishing, which pleased and surprised her a little, for she was not certain how that would progress, with MacGregor of Kinloch and his uncles apparently eager for her to leave the glen—and after the events of a moonlit night only a few days before, she knew why. Now it was abundantly clear that their business in the glen would not allow for the presence of a gauger’s sister.

  She had been surprised to see Patrick that night—and perplexed the next day by a note from him, delivered to Mary MacIan’s house by a man who had sailed up the loch in a small boat manned by another. Beaching in the cove, he had come up to knock on the door, handing her a sealed note with scarcely a word to her or Mary MacIan.

  Dearest Fiona, Patrick had written, if you would leave Glen Kinloch soon, send word by the bearer of this note, Eldin’s man, that you are ready to leave. The carriage will arrive for you within the week.

  If, as I suspect, you have formed an affectionate bond with the glen folk and wish to stay—then indicate to Eldin’s man that you are content where you are. But if your circumstances are dangerous in any way, let Eldin’s man know that. He is instructed to wait while you gather your things, and fetch you back to Auchnashee by boat this day.

  Fiona, may I remind you that in our brothers’ absence, it is my responsibility to ensure your well-being and perfect safety. James and William would do the same, were they in my place.

  She had read Patrick’s note while Eldin’s man sat at the table drinking a cup of the good brown beer that Mary had made. “Please tell my brother that I am content to stay,” she told him. “And that I will take responsibility for my well-being. He will know what I mean,” she said. Giving him a keg of Mary’s brown beer, which was stored in quantity, she had walked him down to the cove.

  Then she had gone back to her studies, writing out the lessons for the next day.

  Wrong or right, smugglers or gaugers, she felt strongly that she followed her best judgment by staying. She was not ready to leave Glen Kinloch, despite pressure from the laird and now her own brother—and those two stood on opposing sides, with Fiona caught in the middle. Both were stubborn men, but she was resolute and would have to prevail. She had not yet completed her obligation to her grandmother, or to herself, for she had given her word to teach here.

  Fleetingly she wondered if she had given her heart, too, quickly and unexpectedly, for that she had never planned. But she could hardly fulfill her grandmother’s wishes, and help her brothers obtain their much-needed inheritance, if she fell in love with a poor Highland smuggler who lacked title, fortune, and all her grandmother had wanted for her.

  Love, she thought, bowing her head for a moment, pausing her chalk tip on the board. Could she truly feel that again, after so long? Though she wanted home and family, she had never really expected to know again feelings such as she had held for Archie.

  Surely it was just fancy, she told herself; just the romantic appeal of a smuggler on a moonlit night, a man unlike any she would ever find in Edinburgh or elsewhere; surely this was a daydream with no more substance than a wisp of fog. And she would not think about it again.

  Likely he did not share her burgeoning feelings; likely his heart did not beat faster when she was near; and very likely he truly did want her to leave. She lifted her head and began to write again on the large slate, chalk squeaking in earnest.

  But she was more determined than ever to stay for the sake of her students. Each day she learned more about their abilities with both Gaelic and English, while they had learned, she hoped, that she could be calm and kind, yet had a stern side. She did not tolerate disruption or distraction, and there had been some fierce scrubbing of slates by Lucy MacGregor and one or two others for talking out of turn or daydreaming when there was work to be done.

  She had spent evenings writing not only letters home, but lists of vocabulary by lantern light until her eyes burned from the oil smoke and her fingers were ink-stained. All the scholars in her school were quick-witted, and most of them learned new English words so quickly that each day she needed more vocabulary lists and fresh ideas. She taught a little mathematics, too, and planned to teach some geography, having found a dusty book of maps in a cupboard in the school. But her most important task was helping them improve their skills in reading and speaking English.

  She had been involved in her teaching duties, but not too busy to think about Dougal MacGregor, and to notice that each day she passed his tower house going to the school and home again, yet she had not seen him, even though she glanced about curious and half hoping. But she reminded herself again that he wanted her out of Glen Kinloch and away from his secrets. Twice already, she had come upon his smuggling activities—no wonder he likely thought her troublesome. She caught him out more often than the gaugers themselves. She almost smiled.

  Now she turned, hearing some low chattering. “Lucy MacGregor, that will be enough,” she said sternly, seeing Lucy whispering to her cousin Jamie. The girl smiled sweetly as the boy handed her his last bit of chalk, though now he lacked some for his own use.

  Fiona walked over to them. “Lucy, please fetch some chalks from the basket and hand them to everyone,” she said quietly and firmly. Lucy nodded willingly and stood to comply. There was no malice in the child, she knew, just a willful spirit; Lucy was more than a bit smitten with Jamie Lamont, so that she could not leave him be.

  While Lucy walked around the class with an apron full of chalk pieces, Fiona saw that the two new students who had arrived that morning were sitting quietly, hands folded, gazes forward in anticipation. New students had arrived each day or so, and the class now numbered over a dozen. Duncan and Sarah Lamont, cousins of Jamie, had arrived before class asking to be admitted. Shaking Fiona’s hand solemnly, they answered her questions before finding seats on one of the long benches.

  Returning to her table, Fiona took up a quill and dipped it in a bottle of ink to write the new names on the student list she had prepared; then she added notations. Cousins of the laird, she wrote; father is the miller at Drumcairn. Duncan ten, Sarah eight. They speak little English. On the next line she noted: Lucy MacGregor needs more activities to occupy her time.

  She looked up when the class was quiet. Walking forward, she folded her hands calmly. “We have a shortage of lesson books, and we have gone through lists of words, so today we will do something new,” she said in Gaelic.

  Tomorrow she would speak to them in English as much as possible, she thought; but for now she wanted them to feel comfortable and grow accustomed to regular hours in school. Picking up the packet she had brought with her, bound in plain paper and string, she opened it to remove a thick sheaf of papers.

  “I have some translations for you,” she told the students. “When I was a girl, I loved to sing the Gaelic songs that my Highland nurse taught me. I translated some of them into English, thinking that many of you will know the verses and songs, too. I have only a few copies, so some of you will have to share.” She looked up. “Jamie, please hand the pages around.”

  The red
headed boy jumped up to pass the handwritten sheaves to the other students. When the copies had been distributed, Fiona noticed Lucy sharing with Annabel, and the Lamont siblings sharing another page. Taking up her own set of copied pages, she looked up at the class.

  “We will try reciting these. If you cannot read the English very well, just follow along as we say each word, and place your finger there, to help you recognize the words again,” she said. “I will say them first in Gaelic, then in English.

  “Dear Lord, shield the house, the fire, the kine, and everyone who dwells here tonight,” she read, and then continued in a soft singsong while they listened.

  Shield myself and my dear ones

  Preserve us from harm

  For the sake of the angels

  Who watch over us this night

  Mairi MacDonald raised her hand. “Miss, my grandmother says this verse every night. She calls it the prayer before resting.”

  “My mother says it every night, too,” Lilias said. Others murmured agreement.

  “I know this one, too,” Lucy said. “My aunt Jean taught it to me, and now that she is gone, my uncle says it to me every night before I sleep.”

  “Very good,” Fiona said, feeling a quick twinge of sympathy to learn that small Lucy had lost both mother and, apparently, an aunt who had cared for her; she was touched, too, to know that MacGregor of Kinloch took time to recite a comforting Gaelic prayer. “Let us say it together in Gaelic and then English,” she continued. “Next verse.”

  Taking up a stick she had found outside, she pointed to the words she had chalked on the large slate hung on the wall.

  Air an oidhche nochd’s gach aon oidhche,

  An oidhche nochd’s gach aon oidhche.

  On this night and every night,

  On this night and every night.

  Her students already knew the verses, and she was pleased with her decision to try something new. As they recited the verses with her, the sound was rich and soft upon the air. Fiona smiled, feeling a thrill that sometimes came to her when she listened to the Gaelic language, as if there was magic and power in even its most ordinary words.

  “Excellent,” she said. “Again, please, and follow the words with your finger or your pencil. Sing if you like, and if you know the melody.” She closed her eyes for a moment listening as a shy harmony of spoken and sung words swelled in the room. Then one voice, sweet and silver clear, rose above the rest.

  Fiona glanced toward the side, and saw Annabel sitting straight, chin lifted as she sang out. Her voice had an astonishing purity and strength, despite her youth. As the other students finished their recitation, the girl’s last note rang out true in the silence.

  “That was lovely, Annabel,” Fiona said.

  The girl blushed, her silver-blond hair slipping down to hide much of her face. “Thank you, Miss MacCarran,” she said softly, shoulders hunched. Someone laughed and there were whispers, but Fiona could not tell, in the slanting sunshine and shadow that came through the small windows, who was responsible. Not wanting to embarrass the girl further, she said nothing and turned away, but listened intently.

  She resumed the lesson, reciting the verses in English, the students following. Annabel did not sing this time, though Fiona hoped to hear the child’s hauntingly lovely voice again.

  For the rest of the morning, the students learned quickly, soon reading a few English words from the Gaelic, and Fiona was impressed by their progress. She excused them for luncheon, noticing that the rain had stopped, although air and earth were still damp. Some of the children sat under trees and some on the large rocks that studded the hillside. Each had brought something from home to eat, unwrapping cheese slabs or oatcakes, and filling the wooden cups that Fiona provided with clear water from a burn that bubbled over rocks down the hillside.

  Mrs. MacIan had given Fiona a packet of food wrapped in a cloth, as she had done each morning; today Fiona found barley cake and a slice of cold bacon. She set it aside to work a little at the table while the students stayed outside, eating and running about.

  “Miss MacCarran,” a voice said.

  Looking up, she saw Ranald MacGregor peering through the doorway, and just behind him, his brother Fergus, the blacksmith whom she had met only briefly. Rising from her tall stool, she went to the door to greet them. “Mr. MacGregor, and…Mr. MacGregor,” she said with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “If you will excuse us, miss,” Ranald said, “we have come to check the roof. With the bairns outside, we thought it might be a good time.”

  She stepped back to allow them to enter. “I did not know there was a problem with the roof.”

  “Och aye,” Ranald said solemnly. “Are you done with the schoolwork for the day?”

  “We sometimes work for a little while after luncheon, though if they complete their assignments, I sometimes release them earlier. Today we have a lesson yet to finish.”

  Ranald nodded. “How will they learn all their lessons if they do not work all day long?”

  “I know that most of them have chores and tasks at home, so they need afternoons free for whatever must be done at home.”

  “Some have tasks only when the laird asks them to do something,” Fergus said.

  “Ah,” Fiona said. “Do the older lads help the laird…at night, in the hills?”

  “Och, and why would they do that?” Ranald asked quickly.

  “Perhaps he moves things about in carts at night,” she said, and smiled.

  “We brought a cask to the reverend’s mother the night you saw us, miss,” he replied.

  “That is what I meant, of course,” she said. “If the older lads are sometimes busy in the evenings, though, I would like to know about it.”

  “Why?” Fergus snapped, and glanced at Ranald.

  “They might be particularly weary some mornings, or without time to do their home lessons the night before. It would help me to assess their work as scholars.”

  “Ah.” Ranald nodded. “My son Andrew, is he a good scholar?”

  “Very bright, and a fast learner, Mr. MacGregor. So is Jamie,” she added.

  “Jamie is my grandson,” Fergus said proudly. “A good lad.”

  “Andrew has his mother’s wit,” Ranald said. “Not mine. I do not read English.”

  “Yet you speak it very well. And you are undoubtedly a clever man, which your son has inherited from you,” she answered.

  “That is true,” Ranald said, puffing proudly.

  “Huh,” Fergus said, as if he doubted it. “Miss, you are a good teacher and a charming lass, I am thinking. What of our great-niece, Lucy, how does she in the school? The laird will want to know.”

  “The laird should ask me himself, but I have not seen him all this week. She is a bit spirited, and also very bright. She’s an enjoyable child.”

  “The laird has been very busy with matters in the glen,” Fergus said.

  “I am sure of it,” she said with a little spice in her tone.

  Fergus huffed. “As for Lucy, do not seat her with Jamie. She torments the lad.”

  “A little, but I suspect it is a form of affection.”

  The men looked surprised. “She does not want to be in school, though Jamie likes the lessons,” Ranald said.

  “So it goes with some children,” Fiona replied. “Sooner or later, they learn what they need to learn, and leave the rest.”

  “She is a good dominie, this one,” Fergus told Ranald. “Perhaps the roof can wait a bit.”

  “The roof?” Fiona looked up. “I noticed some damp spots on the ceiling, but nothing concerning.”

  “Let us take a look,” Ranald said. “We have not always had a teacher here at the glen school,” he continued. “Some years a traveling dominie would come to the glen and stay a season, going from house to house so the bairns could learn their reading and maths at home. That did well enough. We learned that way,” he said, glancing at Fergus, who shrugged.

  “We did not learn muc
h,” he said. “John—that was our oldest brother, miss, and the father of the current laird—was more interested in learning than we three. He studied on his own, and took an interest in books and learning for his tenants and his son, too. Wanted him to have an education.”

  “As every laird needs, these days especially,” Fiona said. “I have heard of the practice of traveling dominie. Sometimes it is the best solution when the glen is large and distances are too great for the students to walk to the only school for miles.” She saw the men nod and glance at each other. “If more children want to come to the school from the far ends of Glen Kinloch, I will speak to Reverend MacIan about hiring a traveling dominie to help out.”

  “We cannot afford to hire another teacher. We are a poor glen,” Fergus said. “One teacher, that is you.”

  “And the roof is leaking,” Ranald said, without glancing up. “Leaking bad.”

  “How do you know, without looking at it?” she asked. “At any rate, I am only prepared to teach reading and writing here, and I plan to return to Edinburgh soon.”

  “How soon?” Fergus asked.

  “A few weeks. Can the roof not wait until then?”

  The men only looked at each other, then walked to a shadowy corner behind the rows of benches. There they ran their hands over the walls and stooped to check the planked wooden floor for dampness and cracks. The level of the ceiling, which comprised roof beams topped by thick bound thatch, was within Fergus’s long reach. They stood gazing upward for so long, and murmuring, that Fiona walked back to join them.

  “I hope it is nothing serious,” she said.

  “It shows the damp,” Fergus said. “See there.” He indicated some stains and cracks.