“Philosophy?”
“It’s like worldly points of view.”
“Well, then I’ll have to share a bit of mine wi’ him. I’ve got more opinions of this world than I’ve had hot dinners.”
“Truer words have never been spoken!” Jenna laughed.
They reached the house kitchens, where Mrs. Wigginton sent them down to the brewhouse with instructions. Together, they rolled a miniature cask down the hill, back to the cottage.
They met Ian heading home from his day’s work, his typical sour disposition present in his greeting. “What’s this—a party, then?”
“It is. Our friend Daniel’s come.” Jenna looked at him warily.
“He has, has he? I expect you’ve brought out the fatted calf as well, then.”
His nettlesome statements no longer fazed her.
“Do you know him?” She recalled Daniel’s last visit; Ian hadn’t joined them yet.
“Aye, I ken him. Met him before wi’ your da. And I’ve heard all the stories as well—the ones where ye followed him round like a pup at his heels.” His eyes regarded her with scorn. “So why aren’t ye in there brushing your hair a thousand strokes? Gone off him, have ye?”
She bit her tongue and knew that responding with any offhanded quip would only vex Ian. But even his wretched mood wasn’t going to alter her excitement for the evening. They walked inside the cottage and were greeted by everyone, happy to see they’d brought the ale.
“Who’s hungry, then?” Angus bellowed as he began filling bowls, putting the first one in front of Daniel.
Malcolm MacDuff stood at the head of the table with a jug of wine in his hands. He gave a faint nod to Colin, who stretched and said, “I think I’ll make a quick trip to the privy, but go on and get started.” Jenna knew it was his turn to patrol and felt a pang of sadness he couldn’t be here for the start of this special meal.
Her eyes returned to her father, who poured some of the ruby liquid into a tall, stout glass. She’d seen the goblet before. It had its place, a part of meetings, hushed and clandestine. It was carved with delicate roses and thistles, and three sections displayed Latin writings in italics. Each segment showed one word. The first was fiat, meaning “let it be.” The second carving was revirescat, which meant “let it grow again,” and the last etching read redeat. “May he return.”
She felt a familiar shiver run up her spine as she watched the ceremony of the Loyal Toast. It was such a simple thing, but she knew the consequences of anyone seeing them do it.
Her father passed the hefty glass over a water-filled wooden bowl and said, “To the king over the water. Redeat!” Then he took a liberal sip and passed the glass to the rest of the men, who each drank deeply from it.
She glanced at Tavish and smiled at the confusion on his expectant face. He was too young to understand what the ritual meant. Turning back, she found Daniel watching her. He raised an eyebrow in question. Yes, she thought, I do understand.
Another toast was raised in welcoming Daniel back into their clan, but hearing the salute, “At last—the return of the Great Soul!” gave her pause, and she looked at Angus for an explanation. He simply shrugged the coincidence away with humor and encouraged everyone to eat.
Warm brown bread was passed around the table, along with a generous crock of butter sent down from Mrs. Wigginton. Tavish did his best, in between mouthfuls of rabbit stew and watered-down ale, to explain to Daniel how it was he came to reside with the clan.
“I dinna ken how it is God works, but He must have a sense of humor. First He gives me my mum ’n’ da—two people I never complained about. Then snatched them right out from under me like old socks I didna want anymore. Now He throws me into this lot. It’s like having a houseful of fathers. One da for every day of the week!”
He was giggling so hard, Jenna thought he might choke on his bread.
The evening meal went on for hours, everyone taking turns asking Daniel for news from the places he’d traveled through. Foreign politics were foremost on the men’s minds, and as was expected, Tavish soon slumped over the side of his plate, sleep catching him unaware as the discussions slipped into drowsy tones.
The mesmerizing pull of the hearth beckoned the men to clear the table, set up chairs fireside, and uncork flasks of whisky. Jenna began to yawn as the candles shortened, and she rose for the privy outside. She shuffled out the cottage door and fumbled with latching the bolt. Bleary-eyed, she turned to see a shadowy figure round the side of the cottage. The sharp slap of the fiendish cold and the surprise of the unexpected silhouette brought Jenna’s senses up at once.
“Who’s there?” The words rushed out to form a spinning white cloud of alarm. Her wisps of breath dispersed, and through it stepped Mr. Wicken, an apologetic expression lit by the thin, flickering firelight through the cottage’s front window.
“’Tis Master Wicken, maid. I only come to return a riding crop of your guest. ’Twas on the floor near his stall.”
The image of Daniel, his precision, everything just so in his tack box, flashed through her mind. She didn’t believe it. Especially as he would never use a crop on his prized horse. “Allow me to fetch him for you.” She rushed for the door latch, but Mr. Wicken put a hand across the door.
“No need, lass, see? You’ll give over.” He dropped his hand and searched the pockets of his outer coat, finding nothing. A chagrined expression flashed across his face. “Must have dropped it on my way down. I’m off, then. Stables need locking. Horse thieves abound, do they not?” He skirted across the frosty ground, back toward the stables, the horses, and in Jenna’s mind, nothing out of place within Daniel’s tack box by Pazya’s stall. There was no crop. He was simply on the prowl, determined to find something to raise his current status from that of newly hired hand to invaluable attendant of the estate.
She skipped the privy and rushed back inside. Her abrupt entrance made the men corkscrew in their chairs. Her breath short, she hastily explained the odd visit.
Her father put a hand up to stop her. “Clearly, whatever message of disinterest ye may have tried to communicate to Mr. Wicken was unsuccessful, Jenna.” He winked at her. “Ye can’t blame the man for goin’ after something he’s set his heart on, now, can ye?”
The men murmured bits of agreement, and she noticed Daniel raise an eyebrow at her.
“No,” she persisted. “I overheard a conversation he had with Lord Pembroke in the barn a month ago. I really thought nothing of it at the time, but perhaps I should have brought it to your attention.”
“With Lord Pembroke, ye say?” her father asked.
Jenna nodded but decided not to reveal the contents of her own dialogue with the duke’s son. It would only bring further suspicion to a person she wanted to keep out of the bright light of inquest. “And also,” she added, “Mr. Wicken is to be married—to a kitchen maid he barely knows. We’ve received an invitation to attend the celebration in three days’ time.”
All eyes turned to Malcolm, apart from Daniel’s, who kept his gaze fixed on Jenna, quietly making small calculations behind an expression of mild disapproval—or perhaps it was concern, she guessed.
A small nod of Malcolm’s head had Gavin out of his seat and through the door, the others moving themselves ever tighter toward the hearth. Another glance from her father was enough to have Jenna bid her good nights and stumble up the stairs to her bed, regretfully giving up precious time with Daniel and the other adults.
Once in bed, she placed her hand in a patch of moonlight that washed her quilt with silver, softening the edges of her fractious mind. For an hour she listened to the faint vibration of deep voices, but hovering on the verge of sinking to that somnolent place, the tones began to rise.
Or rather, one voice began to rise. She raised her head from the pillow and cocked an ear toward the door. It wasn’t her father or Angus. Their voices were much too low to confuse with this tone. Likely, it was Ian.
“I swore an oath to be here, Malcolm—to your family and t
o mine. And as much as I see wrong wi’ the situation, I wilna go back on my word.”
Her head was heavy with weariness, frayed nerves, and Ian’s constant aversion with their current plans. Somewhere in the back of her sleep-woolly mind, Jenna wondered if Ian wouldn’t have been better off just finding a stonemason’s guild where they simply worked on the raising of buildings and not the uprising of a country.
In the morning, the men prepared to leave for the garrison, having found no great alarm from Mr. Wicken’s appearance. “Most say he’s naught but short of friendship and too arrogant to be offered any,” Gavin remarked to Jenna. “But he must be watched, as his interest is too close to ours.”
Angus folded the last of his linen dishcloths and turned to add, “Jeb says he’s desperate for praise, that Mr. Wicken drives him to distraction wi’ all of his queries.”
“Perhaps he assumed I knew no one here and searched me out to offer friendship,” Daniel said, donning his coat before joining the men. “I find it common on my travels.”
Jenna’s ears pricked with interest. “Angus is right. In fact, Mr. Wicken is following every bit of advice he’s been given by Jeb. Even to the point of following through with a wedding to establish his commitment to the estate and its occupants.”
Daniel’s dark brows rose. “Then we shall attend, the two of us. It will give us a chance to speak of my travels and, most important, observe this man.”
“How long will you stay this time?” Jenna asked.
“Only a couple of weeks, I think. There is much to be done, and I will be expected in France to give an update to the court in exile.”
James Stuart’s court. Her eyes clouded with disappointment, but she understood he was as committed as the rest of her clan.
Daniel raised a finger and pointed at her. “Fret over tomorrow steals the joy of today. I am here now, and here is my journal from the last four years. It will tell you many things—some you may not want to know.” His mouth quirked in a sly smile. “But mostly, it should be very interesting. Not the same as being there, but as close as I could get you.”
She took the book and looked at it with longing. “I will savor every page.”
Daniel made a gallant bow. “Hasta más tarde.”
Jenna glowed. Yes, later. Up until this moment, she hadn’t planned on attending the wedding, fearing the great possibility of seeing Mr. Finch. Likely he was still upset with her over the glove, but his acrimony would be a small price to pay if it meant she’d receive an earful of rousing adventures delivered in a mellifluous Spanish accent.
TWENTY-ONE
TWO DAYS LATER, JENNA PEEKED IN THE CARRIAGE house where the wedding reception would be held in the evening—the twelfth night of Christmastide. For the better part of a week, it had been bustling with preparations. Decorated by the womenfolk in their precious spare time, they had transformed the great house into a handsome hall for the evening’s celebration.
The walls were adorned with pine boughs and holly, and the air inside, spicy from its greenery, made her nose twitch. Candles were placed about the hall on makeshift wall sconces, and tables, lining the sides of the room, had been pushed back until needed for dinner. The rough wooden floor had been cleaned of mud from the carriage wheels, readied for the hours of dancing that would take place after the banquet.
She came across Mrs. Wigginton, who said she was near to pulling out her own hair. “I’ve not seen my bed for near a week now.” She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “The kitchen staff is cooking in their sleep, trying to keep ahead of it all. The cold cellars are plum filled wi’ salmon, venison, and pigs.
“Aye, and I’ve yet to make my syllabub. Folk come from miles for that dish. Canna disappoint this year.” She mopped her brow and headed back to the kitchens.
Jenna couldn’t wait to see Mrs. Wigginton’s efforts, but later that day, her enthusiasm waned. She sat staring at the few pieces of clothing she owned, the same things she’d been wearing repeatedly for the last year and a half. She possessed nothing appropriate to wear to a wedding, and decided against going altogether, when someone knocked at the thin wooden door to the loft.
In her father’s arms was the dress she’d worn to Lord Pembroke’s engagement party. “I thought I’d never see that dress again after I returned it to Mrs. Wigginton. One can hardly hope for two great acts of generosity for the same problem from the same person, can they?” She smiled.
“It appears that good woman has offered not only charity, but mercy as well.” He handed the dress to Jenna. “She’s taken out the wee stiff bits ye so detested the first time ye wore it. Said ye didna need to be uncomfortable on behalf of this couple getting wed.” Her father chuckled and walked toward the door. He stopped with his hand on the door frame and turned around, smiling. “That first one had you trussed up wi’ nearly as many ribs and joists as those on the garrison’s plans.”
He closed the door and left Jenna chewing on her lip. Sharp pangs of guilt needled her, refusing to be driven away. She hadn’t told anyone about unknowingly providing Lord Pembroke the ability to interpret the plans. If she kept herself wholly occupied with her studies, it was easier not to fret. A little. She switched to nibble on a fingernail. Of course there’s nothing to worry over . . . right?
She plopped down on her bed and fingered the green satin fabric of the dress, revisiting the tempting thought of not attending the wedding. But Daniel felt the need to scrutinize Mr. Wicken, and it would be a shame to miss out on Mrs. Wigginton’s efforts. Plus . . . if she was being honest, she wanted to be admired.
The warmhearted housekeeper had done more to the dress than remove the whalebone stays. She had sewn in another layer of soft, cream-colored petticoat. It created a sumptuous contrast to the outer coat’s deep emerald green. Frilly strips of lace had been added to the sleeves in the same luscious ivory, and there were matching long gloves and a delicate lace cap to complete the ensemble. After many tiresome minutes of trying to pin her mass of hair beneath it, she gave up and tossed the cap onto the bed. Her hairstyle would remain outdated in that department. A small sacrifice when considering the rest of the costume.
Satisfied she’d done her best in dressing without a looking glass, she descended the stairs, careful not to trip on the many layers of fabric determined to get underfoot. When she reached the bottom step, she glanced up to see everyone sitting around the table, silent and admiring.
“What?” she asked, disconcerted.
Daniel rose from his chair and crossed the few steps to where she stood. He took her hand and bowed low. “Your servant, Miss MacDuff.”
She pulled her hand back and laughed at them. “Stop staring, all of you. I wore this very thing not three months back.”
“Aye, but you’ve finally washed behind your ears, I think.” Colin grinned stupidly.
She flushed the color of beetroot, and was relieved when Angus shushed the other teasing remarks and said, “The dress suits ye fine, lass.”
“I’d agree,” her father said. “You’ve grown into it well—and there’s a lot less fidgeting.”
“Are you the one getting married, then, Miss Jenna?” Tavish asked with widened eyes.
“No!” she said, shaking her head definitively. “Indeed I am not.” But looking at Daniel would change most anyone’s mind, she thought. A surge of admiration flooded her thoughts as her eyes feasted on his handsome clothes. He wore a gold waistcoat to match his eyes, and an outer coat of black velvet with a lily-white jabot. He adjusted the layered ruffles upon his linen shirt and caught her eye. “Perhaps it’s time we leave.” He offered Jenna his arm.
“Just a minute.” Malcolm leapt from his chair and came toward them. “I’ve got one more thing for ye, Jenna. Something I think might be appropriate for the evening.” Her father opened his sporran and pulled out a fragile gold chain. He crossed behind her and lowered the necklace to settle in the hollow of her throat, fastening it beneath her hair.
She looked down at the finely cut ruby
beneath her chin and smiled. “Is it my mother’s?”
“It’s yours now, lass. I wish ye health to wear it.” His face warmed and he turned to grasp her woolen cloak by the doorway. “I think ye best wear this the whole night through. There’s a chill out there.”
“Then I might as well change back into my old skirt and shift for all anyone will see of the gown.” She grabbed a thin shawl and turned to smile at her father. “If I’m cold, I shall dance.”
Jenna and Daniel walked through the side entrance of the carriage house. She hoped they might slip in without being noticed, to give her a moment to take in the crowd. Unfortunately, she neglected to consider the fact she’d be on the arm of an individual who’d never had the term inconspicuous applied to his description. Therefore, as they walked past the rows of wedding attendees, heads turned and gloved hands covered many whispering mouths. Most people had never seen Daniel before, and he and the clan gave little thought to the need for explaining his presence since he’d soon depart.
She knew the faces of the people they passed, but few of their names, as the men were insistent she stay clear of the house and keep to herself.
The less they ken of us the better, Jenna, her father had said. Be ever mindful of that notion.
But she could not help but embrace the kindness of Mrs. Wigginton, or the softening shy nod of Jeb. And even seeing the shabby, desperate efforts of Mr. Wicken brought a piteous form of humor to her day. But there were so many others here as well: the kitchen staff, housekeepers, stable lads, groundskeepers, and footmen employed by the estate. Seeing them dressed in their holiday finery was gladdening, despite the fact that many, like Jenna, wore clothes borrowed from friends and relatives. Most were ill-fitting or sported outdated fashions, the result of gifts from past employers, or secondhand purchases.
The room was thick with an unmistakable air of anticipation, most everyone having just walked from the local parish, where the family’s pastor had given the service and married the couple. The Duke of Keswick was to appear shortly to congratulate the pair and begin the celebration in earnest. Jenna and Daniel found a seat toward the back and fell into an easy, quiet conversation about life on the estate.
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