Betting the Scot (The Highlanders of Balforss)

by Trethewey, Jennifer

  The three women bobbed their heads.

  “You are most welcome,” Flora said.

  “I would like to drive you to choir practice in my phaeton, Miss Pendarvis.”

  “You are kind to offer, but there is no need,” Flora said, rising.

  He waved off her objection. “No trouble at all.”

  “Really,” Flora insisted. “Alex will escort the ladies to choir on Saturdays.” Flora offered to see James out, and they exited the parlor, leaving Caya alone with Lucy and little Hercules.

  Lucy made a humph sound.

  “What?” Caya asked.

  She lifted her chin. “Just humph.”

  “You must mean something by that humph.”

  Lucy looked right, then left, as if she was about to say something terribly wicked.

  “I find the vicar’s offer to drive you highly suspicious.”

  “Why?”

  “Returning you so late in the day, he would expect an invitation to supper.” She leaned back in her chair with lowered lids, looking prim.

  “The vicar is a bachelor. You can hardly blame him for catching a meal here and there from parishioners.”

  “Oh, Caya,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “You are so naive.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Why do you think Vicar James asked you not to receive Declan?”

  “I told you last night. He believes I should wait until I’m certain I have real affection for him.”

  “And while you wait, the Reverend James Oswald makes a quiet play for your hand.”

  “Whaaat?” She couldn’t find words strong enough to object to Lucy’s outlandish statement.

  Lucy pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. “You heard what I said.”

  “No.” Incredulity lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “The vicar would never do something so—so deceitful.”

  Just then Flora returned to the parlor and said matter-of-factly, “Looks like you have another suitor, Caya. The vicar is obviously taken with you.”

  She closed her eyes and put her head in her hands. “Oh dear.”

  “There’s nothing to be fashed about, lass.” Flora patted her back on the way to her chair. “It’s a lucky woman to have two suitors. And what fine choices. Both fit. Both successful. Both kind. I’d be hard-pressed to choose one over the other. Neither Lucy nor I had a choice. Our fathers betrothed us to men we hardly knew. Fortunately, the Sinclair men make excellent husbands. Do they not, Lucy?”

  Lucy and Flora had a private chuckle while Caya had a private panic. She lifted her head, feeling more confused than ever. “Vicar James lied?”

  “Not exactly,” Flora said. “He gave you good advice, but for selfish reasons. You shouldnae let Declan court you out of obligation. Wouldnae be fair to you or to him. Do you feel indebted to Declan?”

  “Well, yes. I can never thank him enough for bringing me to Balforss. But…”

  “But what, dear?” Flora asked.

  “There’s more.” There was the house, of course, but then there was that other thing. That fluttery sensation she got whenever Declan looked at her. “I feel something more. Something more than gratitude.”

  “Well then, what’s the problem?” Lucy asked.

  “Declan believes he is honor-bound to marry me. I don’t want to marry someone who feels obliged.”

  Flora leaned back, chuckling to herself. “In my experience, men often substitute the word ‘honor’ for what they really feel.” She sighed. “They think it’s more manly than expressing their affection.”

  Declan didn’t seem to be the kind of person who would say one thing and mean another. But men often lied to get what they wanted.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” Lucy said, collecting Hercules off the carpet and folding him into her lap. “Two suitors are better than one.”

  Flora raised her eyebrows and said to no one in particular, “I wouldnae want to be around when Declan learns about the vicar’s intentions.”

  “Nonsense. A little competition never hurt anyone.” Lucy lifted Hercules to her face. “Isn’t that right, my darling?”

  Caya stared at Lucy, transfixed. She was the most designing woman Caya had ever met, and she adored her for it.

  That night, the full moon streamed through slats in her bedchamber shutters. Caya lay abed, studying the patterns of light on the wall. Four bars of blue light. One for each day in Scotland: the day she first saw Declan in the tavern, the day he brought her to Balforss, the day she told him he mustn’t court her, and today, the day she spent without him.

  Lucy’s laughter floated up from the garden. She and Alex were taking their evening walk. Only twenty-four hours ago Caya and Declan had walked among the sleeping blossoms. She missed him. Odd. She didn’t miss her brother at all, but she missed Declan, a man she had first laid eyes on only four days ago. That was a good sign, another good sign that her feelings for him were more than gratitude.

  The bars of light flashed on the wall, and a roll of thunder rumbled in the distance. It would rain again tonight.

  She hadn’t forgiven Declan last night when he’d asked, because she’d been angry. No, that wasn’t the truth. He had hurt her feelings. Maybe not on purpose, but when he hadn’t denied her accusation that he only wanted to marry her out of a sense of duty, she’d been injured. She should forgive him, explain that she had received poor counsel from the vicar.

  Oh dear. The vicar.

  Both Lucy and Flora insisted Vicar James was keen for her. Caya was doubtful. The priest didn’t look at her with the same intensity as Declan. From the moment she had first seen Declan in the tavern, he’d intrigued her, stirred her, made her body experience sensations she was unaccustomed to—passion. Should she take that as a sign they were meant to be together or as a warning?

  Declan had been quick to anger last night, something she found troubling. And she had glimpsed his barely contained rage when he had held Jack by the throat. But he could have snapped Jack’s neck like a twig. He hadn’t. Nevertheless, Declan was, as the vicar said, a man of blood.

  Vicar James was a man of God, a peaceful man, kind, a good shepherd to his flock. Most likely his beliefs would be in line with hers. His version of morality and sin would be in keeping with her convictions. Life as the wife of an Episcopal priest would be comfortable.

  Her priest from home—the Reverend William Pearce—he and his wife had always seemed happy with their rabble of seven children. A clergyman would never be rich, but his family would be well-fed, suitably clothed, and decently sheltered in a vicarage provided by the church—a home she could call her own even if she didn’t hold the deed. The Reverend James Oswald would give her security. What more could a plain girl like herself wish for?

  Could she dare wish for more? Passion? Love? Declan could provide that, and a house—a home that was well and truly her own. Forever.

  The wind blew the shutters open with a shoosh of rain. She rose and pulled the window closed, then latched the shutters. The front door opened, and the voices of Lucy and Alex gasping from their dash indoors echoed up the stairs. Another flash and a loud crack of thunder. Jemma began to cry. Poor thing. Caya moved to put on her robe and go to the child.

  She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then Alex’s soothing voice making nonsense sounds to comfort his child.

  “There now. There now, a leannan. Daddy’s here. It’s all right. Wheesht, a nighean. Cuddle doon the night. All is well. All is right.”

  Alex hummed a melody, one Caya had never heard, a haunting, bittersweet tune. She climbed back in bed, closed her eyes, and rolled to her side. Alex had a fine baritone. She should remember to ask him to join the choir.

  She shifted to her other side, feeling restless. Lucy believed she should receive the attention of both admirers. Caya had never been courted by a man, and suddenly she had two. She had loved once, but that had been when her heart was young. She was a woman now, full grown with the same needs and desires as any other
woman. She wanted a home, a family, and a husband who loved her, wanted her, and looked at her with beautiful…dark eyes…

  In the morning, Caya went to the kitchen after breakfast. Mrs. Swenson, the cook, a robust, rosy-cheeked woman, balked when she proposed making Cornish pasties. The kitchen was the cook’s domain, and Mrs. Swenson ruled supreme.

  “There’s someone who deserves my pardon,” she explained. “I thought it best to make my expression of forgiveness with a gift of food. Surely you understand.”

  Not one to surrender territory easily, Mrs. Swenson allowed Caya a corner of the workbench, all the while keeping one chary eye on her. The culinary tyrant scrutinized every ingredient, made sounds of disapproval when she didn’t sieve the flour, and was openly aghast at her liberal use of butter. She endured all with patience, and by the time she finished her dough, most of Mrs. Swenson’s rancor had dissipated.

  She and the cook exchanged bits of conversation in the form of kitchen wisdom while she prepared the filling. Gradually they established a comfortable working rapport. By the time the pasties were ready to assemble, she felt accepted by the woman, who was, as it turned out, very agreeable. Mrs. Swenson stopped stirring to watch her crimp the edges of the pasties.

  “That’s clever,” Mrs. Swenson said. “And pretty, forbye, the way it looks like a rope.”

  “It has a purpose, too,” Caya said, deftly turning the dough and pressing. “Men in the tin mines take these to work with them for their dinner. The edge serves as a handle to protect them from the arsenic dust on their hands.”

  “Arsenic?” Mrs. Swenson said, sounding horrified and fascinated at the same time. “Poison, ye mean?”

  “Yes. The crust has another purpose, too.”

  “What purpose would that be?”

  “The miners, being very superstitious, believe there are spirits down below called knockers. When they finish their elevenses—their midday meal—the miners toss the pasty crusts down the shafts to feed the knockers, so they won’t shake the earth and cause the mine to collapse.”

  “Knockers?” Mrs. Swenson whispered the word as if saying it out loud might conjure them.

  Using the tip of a knife, Caya poked vent holes in the sealed crust in the shape of a D.

  Mrs. Swenson gasped. “Is that the mark of the devil, then?”

  “Not at all,” she reassured the cook, who was, unconsciously or not, making the sign of the horns with the fingers of one hand to ward off evil spirits. “It’s a Cornish tradition. The D is for Declan so he knows these pasties are his.”

  “Ah, so that’s the young man who’s wanting your pardon.” Mrs. Swenson nudged her with an elbow. “A fine choice, if I do say so. A braw and canny young man, Declan.” The woman’s ample bosom jiggled with knowing laughter.

  Caya, thoroughly pleased with Mrs. Swenson’s endorsement, marked a half-dozen pasties with a D and the other six with a B for Balforss, as the balance would be served with dinner. She brushed the tops with a beaten egg and positioned the pan at the cooler end of the oven.

  “There. In the time I take to clear away and wash, they should be done.”

  One of the young grooms popped his head through the door. “Got an extra bannock, Mrs. Swenson?”

  “You ate four for breakfast,” the cook scolded. “Dinnae tell me you’re hungry again.”

  “I cannae help it. I’m always hungry.” Spotting Caya, the boy executed a courtly bow quite at odds with his filthy clothes and hair. “Your servant, miss. My name is Peter.”

  She dipped a low curtsy worthy of the boy’s bow, and said, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Miss Pendarvis.”

  Mrs. Swenson pointed to a basket on the sideboard. “Och, take another bannock and be off with you.”

  “Wait,” Caya said. “Peter, do you know the way to Mr. Declan’s distillery?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “Would you take me there?”

  “You cannae go there yourself, lass,” Mrs. Swenson cautioned her. “It wouldnae be proper. The malting shed is hotter than the hinges of hell and the men work half naked.” Her blue eyes sparkled. “It’s a braw sight to see, forbye, but no’ for a maid like yourself.”

  “I wanted to bring the pasties to Mr. Declan for his dinner.”

  “Dinnae fash. Peter will be your cupid. Won’t you, laddie?” Mrs. Swenson patted the boy on the head, glanced at her hand, and wiped it on her apron.

  …

  Stripped to the waist, Declan and Hamish kept the grain moving to release the moisture with rakes fashioned for the task. Malting generated a lot of heat, and he felt like he was roasting along with the barley.

  He had found Caya at the beginning of the malting process, the first stage of whisky making, a time-consuming business. The barley had germinated over the weekend and for the following two days he and his brother-in-law had kept the barley turning. They worked together all day and all night, occasionally spelling each other for a few hours sleep.

  The thought of not seeing Caya for days bothered him. A lot. He suspected James Oswald would try to woo her away from him in his absence. Thinking about that made him jealous and angry.

  He dropped his rake and cursed.

  Thinking about Oswald and Caya made him clumsy, too. He consoled himself knowing that his dreams never lied. She would be his wife, vicar or no vicar. Nevertheless, he tried to keep his mind occupied with things other than Caya. Counting helped. Twenty-seven boards on the north wall of the shed. A hundred and fourteen knots in the wood. If Hamish stood still, he could count the freckles on his back. Caya had freckles on her nose. Such a sweet wee nose. Pretty lips, too. If he could touch those lips with his own lips, what would she taste like?

  Bloody hell. No good. His thoughts continually circled back to Caya.

  After she had rejected him Sunday night, he’d ridden Gullfaxi home in the dark at a reckless pace, then walked through the empty rooms of his house for hours, too restless to find his bed. The kitchen had held him for a while. She had been there that afternoon, had stood where he stood, had spoken to him and smiled. But all that had remained of her was a ghost of a memory.

  Sometime during the wee hours, he’d finished off the whisky in his flask and fallen asleep fully clothed in Caya’s zinc-lined tub. He’d dreamed of her. Like in previous dreams, she sat in a field of gowans with her back to him. Only this time he’d known her name and called to her, but she didn’t turn to face him. He’d called again and tried to go to her, fighting hard, reaching out, kicking frantically. The harder he’d kicked, the farther she’d drifted from him. His dream of her had become a nightmare.

  “Declan.”

  He flinched as if he’d just come awake.

  Hamish leaned on a rake handle, examining him thoughtfully. “Looks like your end of the shed needs another turn, man.”

  “Thanks.” He swiped at the sweat dripping from his chin. Hamish handed him a wooden ladle full of tepid water. He took two swallows, dumped the rest on his head, and handed the ladle back to the likable fellow. Hamish was short, stocky, and losing his light red hair, but his sister loved him fiercely, and he was good to her. He was a good worker, too, and Declan enjoyed laboring alongside the man, as his company was agreeable.

  “Another twelve hours, would you say?” he asked.

  Hamish squatted on the malting floor, rubbed a few sprouting grains between his fingers, and nodded. “Aye. Tomorrow morning, to be sure.”

  Tomorrow morning. Wednesday. It would take most of tomorrow to finish the malt—to shake off the chaff and rootlets. By day’s end Thursday, he’d have the lot ready to grind for the mash. Friday. He’d find a good reason to visit Balforss on Friday. Even if Caya didn’t want to receive him, she could hardly refuse to say hello. Seeing her face, hearing her voice, if only for a few minutes, would ease his mind enough to get by for another few days without her.

  A light rapping outside the shed door caught his attention. “Mr. Declan, sir. It’s Peter. Can I come in?”r />
  “Aye,” he called back.

  The young groom slipped in through the narrow door, carrying a cloth-covered basket. On the cusp of becoming a man, the spots on the boy’s forehead showed the signs of the cataclysmic battle taking place inside his body.

  “Shut the door behind you, man.”

  “Miss Caya sent me,” Peter said, and he bumped the door closed with his backside.

  Declan perked up. “Miss Caya?”

  Peter held out the basket. “Aye. She bid me bring you these meat pies. Only she calls ’em ‘pah-stees.’”

  Declan inhaled. Something wonderful was under that cloth. Something baked and buttery. He lifted the corner and peered inside. “Oh God.”

  “My belly’s been talking to me all the way here. I never smell’t anything so good.” Peter slurped and wiped drool from the corner of his mouth. Declan’s mouth watered as well. And Hamish, who had been drawn in by the seductive aroma, licked his lips and edged closer. All three of them stared down at the six shiny golden pockets of pastry, sealed at the edge with a turn of the dough, and made to look like a braided rope. And they were still warm.

  “Miss Caya made these?” he asked.

  Peter nodded without looking away from the basket.

  “And she asked you to bring them to me?”

  “Aye,” the boy said, still fixed on the treats.

  Declan reached into the basket and plucked one from the bunch. He pointed to the holes in the top of the pastry pocket. “What’s this?”

  “Miss Caya says the D is for Declan so’s you know these are for you.”

  He took a bite and let his eyes roll to the back of his head. Juicy minced beef, neeps, onions, and parsley baked inside a tender, flaky, buttery crust. He spoke with his mouth full. “Oh God. This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  Peter and Hamish looked at him like vultures waiting their turn at a carcass. He motioned for them to take one, as his mouth was already full with a second bite. Ten minutes later, three torpid Scots sat on the malting floor, leaning against the wall, their bellies full, and the basket empty. He was transported with happiness. Caya had made him dinner, had labored in the kitchen on his behalf, had touched the very food he had in his stomach, an oddly arousing thought.