Betting the Scot (The Highlanders of Balforss)

by Trethewey, Jennifer

  “It would have been rude not to accept the gift. Miss Pendarvis is a guest of Laird John’s,” Declan said, appealing to his sister’s Highland sense of hospitality. Unfortunately, the comment only fanned Margaret’s fiery temper.

  “And who am I, your maid?” Her voice reached an ear-piercing crescendo. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait on you two gomerils?”

  His brother-in-law approached the kettle cautiously. “Ye know, love, the smell of that stew has got my appetite up.” Hamish’s voice took on a seductive quality. “The pasties werenae all that filling. And I can never resist your lamb stew.” Hamish smiled a smile that said, I know you cannae stay angry wi’ me for long.

  Declan was impressed with his brother-in-law’s skill. Hamish reminded him of a snake charmer he’d once seen in Edinburgh. Still, he was grateful his sister wasn’t carrying a kitchen knife. She looked angry enough to run him through.

  Margaret folded her arms and turned away from her husband. Pouting was one of the many weapons in her arsenal of female manipulation. With the indifference of a cat, she allowed Hamish to put an arm around her and kiss her forehead. He said something in her ear, and she smiled in spite of herself. She gave him a playful slap, and all seemed well between them. Margaret served Hamish a generous helping of rich stew. He accepted the bowl and spoon, took a deep breath, and dug in with valiant determination.

  Wanting his sister’s dispensation, Declan admitted a taste for her stew as well. She wordlessly ladled a bowlful and accepted his kiss on her cheek. It would take longer for him to get back into Margaret’s good graces, he knew, but at least she didn’t look as though she might injure him. He chewed a tender chunk of gravy-coated lamb, swallowed, and prayed to God it would stay down, all the while wondering if anyone had ever died from eating too much good food.

  By noon the next day, he and Hamish were deep into the process of cleaning the malt. They had both ends of the shed open for a cross breeze that carried the tiny bits of husk out with the wind. Still, the chaff filled the air, stuck to their skin, and settled in their hair like snow. They wore kerchiefs over their mouths to keep from choking on the stuff, but nothing stopped the flakes from getting in their eyes.

  “Mr. Declan, sir.” Peter stood at the opening, waving away floating chaff. “I come like you said.”

  “Over here, lad.” He motioned Peter to follow, and collected two dozen daisies from a bucket of water. He’d plucked them earlier that morning but hadn’t provided for a means of delivery. Peter had no basket with him, so Declan pulled the leather thong from his hair and used it to tie the gowans into a neat bundle.

  “Give these to Miss Caya. Tell her…” What should he tell her? What dare he tell her? He trusted the flowers to carry the message that he was thinking of her. But what words should he trust with Peter, and would the loon say them in the right order? “Tell her I hope she likes gowans.” A simple message, he thought. One Peter could remember.

  “Aye, sir,” Peter said and dashed off.

  “Wait.” Declan called for him to return. He tested Peter’s memory. “What will you tell Miss Caya?”

  Peter opened his mouth, slid his gaze sideways, and went perfectly still.

  Declan rubbed his face vigorously with both hands. The boy must have a brain the size of a peach pit. Finding his patience, he asked, “Did you forget already, man?”

  “I recall exactly,” Peter said, indignant. “You said, ‘Give these to Miss Caya. Tell her I hope she likes gowans.’ But you wouldnae want me to say it like that, aye? You’d want me to say it more like…” Peter paused to ponder again. After a moment, he held the flowers out with one hand, placed the other over his heart, and spoke with adolescent earnest. “These are from Mr. Declan. He says you’re prettier than all the flowers in the field.”

  Declan stepped back, somewhat in awe of the boy.

  “I ken something else, too,” Peter said.

  “What’s that?” he asked, interested but wary.

  “Miss Caya and Miss Lucy were outside the kitchen door, and I was inside having my dinner. I heard them talking—not a’purpose,” he added quickly. “Just accidental like.”

  He shifted his weight and cocked a skeptical eyebrow at the boy. “And…”

  Peter glanced over his shoulder like one about to say something treasonous. Then he leaned toward him and whispered. “I heard Miss Lucy tell Miss Caya that daisies mean you love her.” The boy made a face as though repeating the words had left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Declan reared back. It hadn’t occurred to him that flowers had meaning beyond their beauty. However unintentional, his gift conveyed a more powerful message than a simple thank-you.

  He looked the boy up and down. “Seems you’ve taken awfy fast to your job as cupid.”

  Peter grinned stupidly at the compliment, destroying whatever newfound respect he had for the lad.

  “Go on,” he said, making a shooing motion. “And dinnae forget to come back tomorrow.”

  Chapter Seven

  Caya had meant to tell Laird John about the incident with the Scrabster women. But he was a busy man and rarely available for a private talk. And anyway, would he want to be bothered with something so trivial? Peter had said those women were nothing but a suspicious lot. No doubt religious zealots, all of them. Her father had always told her not to take notice of such individuals. Perhaps her best decision was to forget the whole thing had happened and move on. That was the kindest thing to do. Forgive and forget like a good Christian. At least, that’s how she justified her silence.

  Friday came. Caya woke with the sun, performed her morning ablutions, then joined Mrs. Swenson in the kitchen before breakfast. Declan had sent her daisies via his cupid, Peter, on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Today she would answer Declan’s gifts with one of her own—revel buns—yeasty sweet rolls flavored with saffron, cinnamon, currants, and sultanas. Her brother, Jack, had allowed her to bring only what she could wear on her back or fit in her travel bag. One of the precious few things she had packed was her tiny supply of saffron, expensive and difficult to come by. Lucky, too, because Mrs. Swenson had no saffron nor did she know of any use for the delicate spice.

  She sprinkled a pinch of the burnt orange–colored threads into a few teaspoons of warm water to soak and watched the bowl turn the color of a summer sunset.

  “What a bonnie color the wee things make. Like tansy flowers,” Mrs. Swenson said, peering over her shoulder. “Wherever do they come from?”

  “I’m told they come from the centers of crocus flowers that grow in the East. In Cornwall, we only make the revel buns on special occasions like Easter or Christmas because the spice is so dear.”

  “And what’s the special occasion today?” Mrs. Swenson poked her in the side.

  She pursed her lips. Today was market day in Thurso. She and Lucy were going into town to purchase a few necessaries. Afterward they would visit the home of family friends, Dr. and Mrs. Farquhar. She planned to deliver the saffron treats to Declan on the way. Mrs. Swenson knew very well her purpose for baking. Nevertheless, she wasn’t about to admit her affection for the tall, dark Scot.

  “Today we celebrate the Visitation of Mary, do we not?” she said in exaggerated reverence.

  “Ooooh. I see,” Mrs. Swenson teased. “The buns are for the Virgin Mary. Silly me. And I thought they were for the young man who’s been sending you flowers.”

  Caya disintegrated into laughter, something she’d done more often in the last week than she had in the last few years. The stress of losing the farm, the creditors threatening the workhouse, and the fear of leaving her home had taken a toll on Caya’s capacity for happiness. It felt good to laugh again. Laughter made her feel…new. New country, new home, new friends. She even had a new gown to wear.

  She and Magnus’s mother, Aunt Agnes, had spent most of the last two days cutting down one of Lucy’s old gowns—a light blue frock made of airy lawn cloth with a delicate chain of daisies embroidered
down the length of the sleeves. The bodice had become too tight in the bust for Lucy’s comfort—or so she said. Caya suspected Lucy made up the excuse to make a gift of the gown. Still, she was thankful for Lucy’s generosity and excited to add a new gown to her meager clothing cupboard.

  While the revel buns baked in Mrs. Swenson’s oven, she returned to the house to get ready for her trip to Thurso. The finished blue gown lay on her bed. She traced a finger around the embroidered daisies. Would Declan notice them on the sleeves of her gown? Would they be satisfactory acknowledgment of his gifts? More importantly, would they serve to return his sentiments of love?

  She heard a light rap on the door. “It’s Lucy. May I come in?”

  “Please.”

  Lucy swept into the room with a gust of the citrusy bergamot Flora used to make soap. She moved with the confidence all beautiful women seemed to share. Caya wondered if confidence rose from being beautiful or if being beautiful came from having confidence.

  “Almost ready?”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I need help fastening my gown.” All of her clothes fastened in the front, a design common among women who lacked a lady’s maid. The altered gown, like all of Lucy’s, closed in the back, making dressing impossible without assistance.

  After finishing the last button, Lucy stepped back and looked her up and down. “My, you and Aunt Agnes have done a fine job. This gown never looked so lovely on me.”

  It was a generous thing for her to say. “Thank you, Lucy. When I’m wearing it, I don’t feel quite so plain.”

  Lucy laughed as though she had told her a joke. “Who on earth said you were plain?”

  “Well.” She thought for a moment. “My brother, I suppose.”

  Lucy dropped her smile. “Darling, your brother is a blasted idiot.”

  Her batch of revel buns had produced two dozen. She packed six for Declan and six for Mrs. Farquhar. Anticipating Peter’s insatiable appetite, she wrapped two lavishly buttered buns for his immediate consumption and included another two for him to eat at his leisure. The balance she left for Mrs. Swenson to serve with the afternoon meal.

  The same wagon used to transport the women of Balforss to church clacked and rattled into the dooryard. Lucy fondly referred to the rig as “The Crate” because it looked like a large wooden box on wheels. And that, in fact, was what it was.

  The spindly groom, Peter, looked insubstantial driving something as big and cumbersome as the Balforss wagon. The draft horse alone was at least a hand taller. Yet, the boy managed the wagon with surprising skill as he maneuvered The Crate up the drive to the front of the house. After pulling the brake and securing the reins, he hopped down, opened the wagon door, and offered Lucy and Caya a gentlemanly hand.

  “We’re stopping at Mr. Declan’s house on the way, Peter,” she said, and she held out the bundle of bakery.

  Peter’s social airs vanished in a heartbeat. He extracted one warm buttered bun, stuffed the whole thing in his mouth, and uttered a muffled, “Fank you, miff.”

  They reached Taldale Farm just after one in the afternoon. She remembered her last visit, the time she’d spent alone in the kitchen with Declan, and how he had so passionately declared she was his. She must remember not to be alone with him again. Laird John hadn’t objected to their exchange of tokens—the daisies and her baked goods—but he hadn’t yet lifted his ban on courting.

  When The Crate creaked to a stop, she stared at the large front door in the center of the stone house—the house that would be hers one day if…she swallowed. What if her visit was not welcome? What if he was not alone? What if Declan saw her unannounced arrival as an intrusion? So many “ifs.” Suddenly, she felt foolish—her visit, the revel buns, her gown—everything must look foolish. Oh dear. This was the wrong thing to do.

  Lucy leaned forward and caught her attention. “Caya, is something wrong?”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea. We should go.”

  One of Lucy’s elegant dark eyebrows lifted. “Nonsense. You made those revel buns especially for Declan. Now, go deliver them. No need to stay long. I’ll wait here for you.”

  Peter hopped down and opened the wagon door.

  “What if he’s not home?”

  “Then go inside and leave the bundle in the kitchen. He’ll know who it’s from.” Lucy patted her arm for reassurance.

  Caya wobbled on shaky legs to the front door. She knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Waited. Knocked a little harder. Still, no one answered. She looked back at the wagon. Lucy made a go inside gesture.

  She lifted the iron latch and swung open the heavy oak door. Right away she heard sounds coming from the back of the house. She called to Declan before walking through the dining room. She called his name again when she reached the door to the kitchen.

  A tall, dark-haired woman in an apron about Caya’s own age greeted her with a hardened face. “Who are you?”

  She stumbled backward. “I…I…I’m looking for…”

  The woman folded her arms under her bust, lifted her chin, and said, “You’re the wee bizzum what’s bringing my brother that Cornishy scran. Did ye think you’d buy his affection with a few meat pies?”

  Caya gasped. Of all the rude—

  “I most certainly did not.” Caya was so shocked, so taken aback by this woman’s accusations, she couldn’t think of a response strong enough to express her outrage.

  “Oh, no?” The woman pointed at her bundle of bakery. “What’s that you got there, then? Put a love spell on those, did ye?”

  “Never.”

  “My little brother is a gullible sot when it comes to women, but you willnae put one over on me with your fancy cooking and pretty blue kirtle.”

  “You are the most, the most…inhospitable person I have ever met.” She thrust her bundle at the woman. “Please give these to Declan.” She sprinted out of the house as if her hair had caught fire, not forgetting to give the big front door a good slam behind her.

  Lucy opened the wagon door, looking startled. Flinging herself inside the wagon, she shouted, “Drive, Peter. Get us out of here.”

  “Aye, miss.” Peter made a sharp whistle. The wagon lurched forward and then trundled down the lane at a clip.

  “What on earth happened in there?” Lucy demanded.

  Caya was so spitting angry she couldn’t speak at first. At last, she growled, “That woman.”

  “What woman?”

  “Declan’s sister. She’s, she’s… I dislike her.”

  The alarmed look disappeared from Lucy’s face. “Oh, Margaret.” She flapped a hand. “Don’t mind her. She’s been in a bad mood for years.”

  Caya leaned forward. “She accused me of trying to buy Declan’s affection with food.”

  Lucy tilted her head and let her gaze slip sideways. “Well, she’s not completely wrong.”

  “What?” She couldn’t believe her ears. Lucy was supposed to be her friend. Friends didn’t accuse each other of such underhanded—oh my Lord, Lucy was right. Her jaw dropped open, and she fell back in her seat.

  Lucy laid a hand on her knee. “Forget Margaret. Once she realizes Declan is in love with you, all will be forgotten and everyone will be happy.”

  Feeling dazed and numb around the edges, she nodded, not believing Lucy, but not wanting to further the conversation by arguing.

  “You’re upset. If you like, Peter can take you home. I’ll go to the Farquhars on my own, and the boy can return for me later.”

  “No.” She straightened her spine and her resolve. “I’m fine. Really.” She wasn’t fine, but she wouldn’t ruin market day for Lucy. It was Lucy’s favorite day of the month.

  The market was crowded and loud. She welcomed the noise. The fugue of voices made conversation impossible. The last thing she wanted to do was chat about figs and fish. Buffeted between bosoms and backsides, she squeezed past people haggling over price and quality.

  How could she have been so ridiculous? Why hadn’t she known
that enticing someone with food was no honest way to establish tenderness? A woman’s attempt to snag a husband with her cooking was sad and desperate. And yet that’s exactly what she’d gone and done with Declan. Humiliating.

  Lucy paused in front of each booth to examine every apple, every cabbage, every blank-eyed salmon. Occasionally, she would hold something out for Caya’s inspection. She would give whatever she held a dull nod. She knew Lucy had looked forward to sharing the day with her. She didn’t want to spoil things for her friend, but good Lord, would this day never end? How many hours before she could climb into bed and pull the covers over her head?

  Lucy slipped her hand into hers and pulled her inside a shop. The door shut behind them with a jingle. Sudden quiet made the clack of Lucy’s heels on wood floorboards echo inside Caya’s head. Clean linen and wool smells tickled pleasant memories of Cornwall. They were in a dry goods store very much like the one she had frequented in Penzance. She remembered Lucy’s primary shopping mission: buy new trim to replace the frayed cuffs of her peach-colored gown.

  “Which one do you like better?” Lucy asked, holding out two cards of fine Belgian lace.

  She stared at them. They looked identical. She pointed to one.

  Lucy sighed and handed the clerk one of the cards. “A yard of this one please, Mrs. Gordon.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve ruined your market day.”

  “Never mind that. I’m sending you home with Peter. Listening to Mrs. Farquhar prattle about her grandson will be torture for you.”

  “But what about the saffron buns?”

  “I’ll give them to Mrs. Farquhar, if Peter hasn’t eaten them all.”

  When they stepped outside the dry goods store, she and Lucy came to an abrupt halt. Three women blocked their way. Caya caught her breath and froze when she recognized the one with the white hair.