Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Augusta nodded. “Yes, we’re done for now.”

  Liv stepped back as Angus assisted her companions. Once they were settled in the wagon, she said, “If you don’t mind I’d prefer walking back.”

  Augusta, looking concerned, said, “Are you certain? You won’t get lost?”

  “Quite certain.” She needed exercise like others needed food. Without it, she became restless, fidgety. She also wanted to read her father’s letter then formulate a response in peace. Besides, she had no talent for making kissing balls. “I can’t possibly get lost. I can see the village church from here. From there I’ll follow the coach road to Blythe Hall.”

  “I don’t know...” Augusta muttered. “The Duchess is expecting all of us for lunch.”

  Liv took another step back. “Trust me, there’s no need to worry. I’ll be fine and back in time.”

  Augusta finally nodded. “As you wish then.”

  In a puff of dust they were gone and Liv heaved a relieved sigh. She wasn’t accustomed to having her every minute scheduled. Raised to be independent, she relished her time alone to think and plan. To manage her father’s household, act as hostess for his many business dinners, and then do whatever she chose.

  Following the path toward the village, she studied her surroundings. She missed Lynn’s boulder strewn beach. Missed the rolling thunder of waves, the salt-infused air and screeching gulls, but this Scottish landscape did have its charm, even in winter. The bare trees footing the hills where they’d found the mistletoe framed a golden pasture dotted with hundreds of fluffy sheep. Down the center of the valley—what those here called a glen—meandered a lovely black ribbon of water. Small birds dove for insects skating across its mirrored surface.

  To her left at the end of the curving valley rose a huge rocky outcrop shaped like an anvil. Atop it, she spied the outline of stone ruins, what might have been an ancient castle. She made a mental note to explore it the next time she had a spare afternoon.

  She continued on, imagining soft swells of lush purple heather decorating the hills in summer until she came to a flat boulder along a hedgerow. Here she sat and pulled out her father’s letter. With a sigh, she tore open the envelope and read,

  Dear daughter,

  Thank you for your letter of November 16th. I was pleased to hear that you were warmly welcomed by the Duchess and that your accommodations at Blythe Hall have proved adequate. Please give the lady my best regards.

  I expect you to take full advantage of every invitation extended to you. You understand how important it is to our futures that you meet a gentleman who can provide the necessary stature needed to overcome the prejudice associated with our Irish blood. You becoming a lady of the realm will open doors that up until now have been firmly closed against us. It is imperative that the Cabots, Prescotts and Lowells of this world finally show us the proper respect, if not welcome us with open arms.

  Daughter, do not fail me in this. I expect full details of your progress to date in your next letter.

  All here progresses as hoped. Investing in young Jon Matzeliger’s shoemaking machines has proved most wise. Each of our cobblers now produces at a rate of 700 pair per year. Multiply that by the number we employ and you will understand my current jubilation. Construction on the new factory and warehouse begins shortly. Also your friend Mrs. Pinkham sends her best regards.

  Write the moment you capture the interest of a titled gentleman.

  Your father,

  Michael Conor

  Liv scrunched her father’s letter and stuffed it into her reticule. He’d never change.

  He had nothing in common with Boston’s blue bloods. He had no desire to call them friends. He resented them. Oh, he was as wealthy as they, possibly more so. He’d built his turreted twenty room mansion in the heart of their summer enclave along Lynn’s coastline eighteen years ago simply to prove the point.

  He’d then instructed her mother to spare no expense in furnishing it. Mary Louise Conor had poured her heart and soul into the project, filling the house with the most exquisite furnishing she could find. The best art. The best fabrics and silver.

  Once she felt she’d reached perfection, they planned a grand Independence Day party. Beautifully embossed invitations were sent to all their well-heeled neighbors. Not one accepted the invitation. Some never bothered to respond at all.

  Liv, although only four years old at the time, instinctively knew that their neighbors’ shunning had proved a stunning blow, had crushed her mother. Which in turn pushed her father over the edge of reason.

  Her mother died the following winter, never having set foot in a neighbor’s home. The doctors blamed her sudden demise on a weak constitution and influenza. Michael Conor blamed his neighbors.

  Liv sighed. No, she would not be trapped by her father’s unbridle ambitions.

  In response to his letter she would exaggerate a bit about the guest list and to whom she’d spoken at the two small soirees she’d attended. Yes, that would work. She could also tell him about mistletoe kissing balls. That alone should appease him. She could then provide him with an abridged list of eligible men invited to the upcoming ball that she didn’t wish to attend but would, simply to placate him, her insane, title-obsessed father.

  That should keep him happy and on the right side of the Atlantic Ocean for the foreseeable future.

  Satisfied she’d solved her most pressing problem, she focused on the next. Finding out when and where the next meeting of the Edinburgh National Society for Women’s Suffrage was to be held. She pulled their brochure from her pocket and smiled, seeing the article by her heroine Mary Crudelius, one of the founders of the Higher Education for Women movement in Scotland.

  Just as she began reading a horrendous crack, like that of a mast breaking before a gale, shattered the peace around her.

  “Good heavens!” Hand to her throat, she jumped to her feet.

  Hidden by the corpse, a horse neighed in panic, more wood snapped, something heavy thudded to the ground and a man cursed in livid fashion. Then horrendous squealing, the likes of which she’d never heard, erupted. “What on earth—”

  ~*~

  “I can’t friggin’ believe this!”

  Colin dropped to his knees, and using more force than was necessary, shoved the cart’s wheel aside so he could better examine the fractured axel. The cart immediately toppled and he could do naught but watch in horror as the piglets’ crate crashed to the ground and the dozen terrified white and black beasts made good their run to freedom.

  “God’s blood on the cross!”

  He tossed his hat to the ground, scrambled to his feet and cursing again, dove for the closest piglet.

  “Ha! Got ye, ye wee bastard!”

  Another crossed his path and he quickly bent and caught it by scuff. As he straightened, he started. A tall woman with big doe eyes and flame red hair stood not ten yards away, a gloved hand pressed to her lips.

  “Oh! I humbly beg your pardon, lass. I had no idea anyone was near.”

  The woman waved away his apology. “May I be of help? You appear to have your hands full.”

  He did indeed. “I’d be most grateful if you’d be kind enough to straighten that crate. I can’t do it with these,” he held the piglets up by their scuffs, “in my hands.”

  The lass stepped to the rear of the cart, grabbed the side closest to her and pulled until the crate was upright and then flipped open the lid. “I fear your latch is broken.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Colin dropped the piglets into the crate and tore off after another. The lass surprised him by running in the opposite direction after a piglet headed for the corps. She cornered it beside a huge boulder then lunged, her bustle and curls bouncing, catching the piglet by its hind legs.

  “Caught another!” she yelled.

  “Splendid!” he shouted back. “Only nine more to go.”

  After much shouting, running, lunging, laughing and grabbing, his twelve escapees were once again in th
e crate.

  Colin brushed the dirt from his trousers legs and held out his hand. “I can’t thank you enough, Miss—?”

  The lass, who couldn’t have been more than twenty or twenty-two, brushed the dirt from her gloves, straightened her bonnet and took his hand. “Conor. Miss Olivia Conor of Lynn, Massachusetts.”

  “Colin MacNab of Clachankirk. A pleasure to make your acquaintance despite these unusual circumstances.”

  “The pleasure was mine. I haven’t laughed so much since childhood.”

  “Truth be told, I haven’t either.” That he had was most odd.

  “Were you taking the litter to market?”

  “Nay, they’re bound for the Yule fair. Which reminds me...”

  Colin pulled out his pocket watch and mentally cursed. “I had hoped to get them to the village in time to work a wee bit more on my sermon, but alas, that won’t be the case. Let’s pray our musicians are in fine fettie and their instruments tuned. To fill time, I’ll be asking the congregation to ‘raise their voices up to the Lord’ a good bit more than usual.”

  “Ah, you’re the village minister.”

  “At least for the foreseeable future and not a very pious one as you’ve already heard.”

  She laughed. “I shan’t tell a soul. My father’s vocabulary is often quite colorful.”

  “Thank you.”

  He bent to examine the cart’s fracture axil again. “There’s no hope for it. The widow Bryce will just have to wait for her piglets.” He’d send someone out to collect them after the service.

  Since the cart was a hopeless cause, he patted the dray’s neck and undid its harness. Colin tapped its rump and the old horse stepped out. “Sorry old man, but ye’ll have to find yer way home on yer own this time.”

  As the horse ambled off, Miss Conor tugged on the crate’s rope handles. “Reverend MacNab, this crate—”

  “Not Reverend, Miss Conor. I’m not ordained. Friends simply address me as Colin or MacNab.”

  “Ah, my apologies, Mr. MacNab. As I was saying this crate isn’t all that heavy and the village is but a mile away. I’m sure if you held one side and I held the other, we can get these darlings to the village in no time at all.”

  Surprised she’d even suggest it, he cocked an eyebrow. “You’re willing to do this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Well then. He made quick work of piling the harness on the cart seat, dusted the dirt from his clothing and donned his hat. “Ready?”

  Miss Conor nodded and off they went, a dozen piglets squealing in alarm betwixt them.

  As the sun darted behind a stray cloud Miss Conor asked, “Will the piglets be put on display at the fair?”

  “Nay, they’ll have ribbons tied to their tails then be placed in a round pen. Bairns below the age of ten will then be turned loose in the pen with them. If the bairn snags a ribbon he earns a prize. Usually mittens or scarves or some such. Whatever the ladies feel the bairns need.”

  “What a lovely tradition. Do you live in the village?”

  “Nay, my home is yon, at the foot of that hill.” He pointed to the left.

  “Ah, below the ruins. Was that a castle?”

  “Nay, Clachankirk was a twelfth century monastery. ‘Twas destroyed during the Protestant Reformation. There’s little left intact save for the south and west facing walls, a few partial staircases and the well.”

  “Hmm, I’d still like to explore it. There aren’t any ancient ruins at home.”

  “And where exactly in America is home?” he asked.

  “Lynn is north of Boston, on the coast.”

  He nodded. “Am I correct in assuming that ye’re staying at Blythe Hall?”

  “Yes. Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

  “None at all. The Duchess is a gracious hostess. Ye’ll enjoy yer season.” Just as they all did.

  She sighed. “Truth to tell I’m here solely in hopes of making the acquaintance of Miss Mary Crudelius and Miss Mary Burton.”

  He frowned. “I don’t believe I know the ladies although one name does sound familiar. Have they been invited for the season as well?”

  “That would have been wonderful, but no. They’re two of the most prominent leaders in the Women’s Suffrage movement here in Scotland.”

  She was a Suffragist? Impossible. She was being coy.

  As if she’d read his mind, she pulled a brochure from her coat pocket and held it out to him. As he took it, she said, “This details Miss Crudelius’s positions with regard to higher education. She’s dedicated to seeing that all universities are open to women.”

  Ah. Seeing the woman’s likeness he now recalled why her name sounded familiar. “If memory serves, your Miss Crudelius had to be removed bodily from a government minister’s office not too long ago.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised. Equal access for women to institutions of higher learning is something about which I’m also most passionate.”

  Shaking his head, he handed the brochure back to her. “You’re quite serious, then? You’re not here to catch the eye of a handsome peer?”

  “Good heavens, no!” She shuddered and pocketed the brochure. “Please don’t misunderstand. I’m sure Scottish men are quite nice but there’s far too much yet to do for women’s equality to waste time preening or gossiping at parties and the like.”

  She certainly sounded sincere, but he had to confess, “I fear I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. I know several women who’ve attended lectures at Edinburgh University. I had two women in classes that I attended.”

  She nodded. “Women do attend lectures at Edinburgh. They’re allowed to attend all the lectures and take the requisite examinations, but did you know that they’re unable to receive the degree to which, had they been men, their examinations would have entitled them? Instead, women receive an honors certificate.”

  Humph. He’d been so happy to put his years of focused study behind him that he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to his female classmates. “I didn’t realize this. Is this also true in America?”

  She shook her head. “We do have the rare college that accepts both men and women as equals, but most institutions for higher learning are segregated. The best universities such as Harvard only admit men. Institutions like Vassar Female College were created specifically for women. Their courses in Languages and Music are in essence the same, but they don’t offer the same degrees.”

  Was the woman being deliberately obtuse? “I still don’t understand the problem. If both universities provide the same education...”

  “Alright. Let’s pretend you’re the Dean of Ancient Languages at a growing university and need a professor of Latin. You have two eligible male candidates before you. One has a degree in Latin from prestigious Oxford. One has a degree in Latin from St. Bumblebee College on the Isle of Mull. All things being equal in terms of their degrees, interviews and character, who are you most likely to hire?”

  “The one exposed to the best Oxford has to offer in terms of experience, knowledge and culture. That candidate being on staff would only add to my university’s prestige.”

  “Precisely my point. Degrees from lesser institutions can put graduates at a distinct disadvantage. If the candidate also happens to be female, she’s at an even greater disadvantage. But that isn’t the only problem.” She took a breath and smiled at him, flashing lovely dimples. “May I tell you a secret?”

  “Of course.” She could tell him whatever she wished. Despite his lingering suspicion, he wanted to know more about her.

  “I wish to earn a degree in law. I dearly wish to someday write legislation that guarantees a woman’s right to vote.”

  Unlike many of his class he wasn’t opposed to the notion so long as the woman was of sound mind and educated. Imagining a promiscuous street tart or the twit at last year’s fair who couldn’t tell the difference betwixt a goat and a ewe having the right to vote, he grimaced.

  She’d apparently noticed his expression. Her amber
eyes flashed fire and full lips thinned. Her dimples had also disappeared, making her countenance look most severe as she asked, “You’re opposed to women having the vote?”

  “Not in general and certainly not for thoughtful women of property. Over the centuries we’ve had several Scot Queens, whilst many a Scotch lairdship has passed to competent women.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  Ah, as sassy as she is pretty. “So why haven’t you earned a degree in law?” She had the funds if her clothing was any indication of wealth.

  “I haven’t earned my degree in law because institutions like Vassar Female College don’t offer the necessary curriculum and institutions like Harvard that do offer the curriculum, don’t admit women.”

  “A conundrum.”

  She huffed. “Most certainly.”

  Since the women of his acquaintance had never expressed an interest in politics or legislation, he said, “You must come from a long line magistrates or politicians.”

  Her father being a noted magistrate or Senator would explain her presents at Blythe Hall.

  She laughed. “Oh, good heavens, no. I come from a long line of cobblers.”

  Greatly surprised, he frowned. “Now you’re jesting.”

  “No. I’m quite serious. My father prefers to be called a shoemaker, but Grandpa, Enna O’Conor, took great pride in simply being called a cobbler.

  “It came about when Grandpa was nine and an orphan. The authorities in Ireland decided to clear the overcrowded poorhouses and ship children to Canada. A storm caused my grandfather’s ship to be diverted to Boston. There, the Captain posted a notice stating able-bodied children were available as indenture servants. Of course the children were all too young to understand that they were, in truth, being sold.

  “In any event, an aging cobbler named Babcock, having no children and needing an apprentice, examined the lot and seeing Grandpa was tall and big boned for his age, chose him. Grandpa was clever, worked hard—he was eating well for the first time in his life—and he soon became family.