The Freemason's Daughter

by Shelley Sackier

  A knock on the cottage door brought them to attention and Angus rose to answer it. One of Mrs. Wigginton’s stewards handed him a letter. “It’s for you, Malcolm,” Angus said, setting the soggy correspondence by his hand.

  Malcolm opened the letter and skimmed the writing. He raised his eyebrows and looked around the table. “It appears one of us is to be honored.” His face formed a half smile and settled on Jenna. “We’re invited to take tea with Lord Pembroke and Lady Lucia. They’ve asked ye be the guest of honor to thank you for the timely rescue of the lady,” he read.

  Jenna’s stomach somersaulted. “No, thank you.”

  Malcolm’s brows lowered and his eyes grew narrow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I would assume you’d think it a terrible idea. Mixing with the family in the estate when at any moment they could discover what it is that we’re doing—”

  There was a muffled thump at the door. Everyone jumped and Gavin dashed to open it. Beyond it was the scrambling figure of Garrick Wicken, brushing mud from the back of his breeks. Flustered, he put up a filthy hand and pointed toward the house. “Sorry to bother. It’s that I saw a young lad messing about your cottage and thought him up to no good. Slipped in the spring mud, now, didn’t I?” He looked about at the unwelcoming faces at the table. “Seems he was just dithering. No harm done, see? G’day to you.” He bobbed his head in farewell and slogged toward the stables.

  The room was silent, but Jenna knew everyone was reviewing the last words she’d said, appraising what might have been overheard.

  Malcolm leaned in toward Gavin. “Take him to town. Buy him as many rounds as he’ll stomach. And spin a tale like ye’ve never done before, Gavin. Convince him that his nosin’ round this cottage is all for naught and lead him down some other lane. Feed him a whole barrel full of red herring, for we need to get this bloodhound off our scent, understood?”

  Gavin dashed for his coat and was out the door in a flash.

  Jenna cleared her throat and then began to gather crumbs from the table in front of her. She noticed her father’s clasped hands, one thumb making lazy strokes on the other.

  The thumb stopped. “Be ready at three.”

  With timely precision, the rest of men rose and filed out the door. Jenna sat at the table, staring at a small pile of crumbs. She didn’t want to go. She couldn’t go. Because she knew that beneath Lady Lucia’s fine exterior, there lived something primal and hurting. And if provoked she would eat Jenna alive. The way things stood now, she was nothing more than fish bait.

  The afternoon continued its gloomy drizzle, all the snow from the past week having melted, leaving rivulets of thick mud in its place. Jenna had spent the last of the family market money on a dress Daniel insisted she buy. It wasn’t new, but it showed no signs of heavy wear, and the color, a soft sunny yellow, suggested a hint of spring. It was plain, but she had always been drawn to simple and trouble-free clothing. Bows and ties got in the way, lace was always catching, and excessive folds, in Jenna’s mind, were an indulgent waste of material.

  The gown, while not the height of fashion, would suit Jenna for many occasions to come, but showing up in Lord Pembroke’s parlor to be honored by him and his bride was not one she’d envisioned.

  She smoothed the front of the primrose-colored skirt and looked down at her roughened leather boots. Grateful for the height of the dress’s previous owner, Jenna noticed it nearly covered her grubby, serviceable shoes. One last brush of her hair left it falling down heavily around her shoulders. Even if it wasn’t fashionably upswept, it would provide the extra benefit of warmth on this damp day.

  She found her father at the table, going over his new inventory list, and noticed he was outfitted in his finest kilt and snowy-white linen shirt. His rough, wiry hair had been pulled into a neatly plaited queue in the back, and he’d even taken the time to comb his beard. He was resplendent in his formal wear. Little did he know he was dressing for her funeral, for when he’d hear of Jenna’s behavior—slapping Lady Lucia—it would be time to find a pine box. At least he would appear handsomely dressed when losing his temper. That seemed to count for a lot with these people.

  When shown to the parlor, Jenna looked around uneasily for a place to sit that would neither break from antiquity, nor present a level of discomfort so unendurable she would fidget throughout the entire event. She settled on a modest but well-padded chair with the hope that when their hosts arrived, she would not find she’d chosen somebody else’s preferred seat. Her father’s tight smile did nothing to buoy her confidence, and she soon discovered the chair had a most precarious wobble. Jenna vowed to sit perfectly still, and the two of them watched, in rigid silence, as one of the maids poured the tea in preparation.

  When the door opened, Lord Pembroke entered with his and Lady Lucia’s mother on either arm, both immaculately dressed in gowns of colorful blue and green silk. Jenna and her father stood as they came around to the suite of chairs and the tea.

  Malcolm made a formal bow to the women as they were introduced and announced grandly, “Your servant, madams.” He lowered his head to Lord Pembroke, saying, “Good day, sir, and thank you for the honor.”

  Jenna made polite curtsies to each, and only raised her eyes when Lord Pembroke spoke. Her heart thumped loudly. She was shocked by the thrill she felt in seeing him again.

  “The honor of your company belongs to us, sir. And the tribute of the tea is in admiration of your daughter’s, uh . . . courage,” he finished with a smirk.

  Lady Lucia’s mother took Jenna by the shoulders and kissed her on either cheek. “Non posso ringraziarla abbastanza! I cannot begin to thank you for what you’ve done.”

  Jenna shook her head. “I am only grateful for Mr. Banks and his wife. We were lucky to find the shelter.”

  The countess nodded. “We have sent a gift of thanks. We’ve heard much about them.”

  Jenna’s brows rose. I’ll bet.

  “But Lady Lucia would not be here today, if it wasn’t for you,” she said, eyes bright and glistening.

  Jenna looked back and forth. “Where is milady? Is she unwell?” she asked, hopeful. “Perhaps it was the whisky?”

  Lord Pembroke choked on a mouthful of tea, his eyes bulging. Lady Lucia’s mother looked confused and stood awaiting further explanation. The duchess, whom Jenna thought unusually pale, merely raised her eyebrows, one side of her mouth curling upward, while Jenna’s father turned to her in shocked surprise.

  “Jenna!” he said, his brows furrowed together.

  “She was cold.” Jenna shrugged. “And it helped,” she murmured to him.

  At once the heavy wooden doors of the parlor opened and Lady Lucia waltzed in like a spring breeze, her gown the epitome of dappling sunlight. It was softly quilted with yellow folds of silk falling from gathers and tucks all across her tiny waist, and miniature spray roses of red and gold sprinkled about from head to toe. The bodice was squarely cut across her chest and displayed a delicate choker of striking red stones. Her sleek hair was piled high on her head and pinned in place with jewels that matched her necklace.

  For a brief moment, Jenna’s nerves disappeared as all she could focus on was how utterly stunning the young woman looked. Everyone turned to watch Lady Lucia and her grand entrance. Everyone, except Lord Pembroke. He had not turned around to face the door, but instead stared at Jenna. She raised her eyebrows in question, and he smiled, faintly shaking his head.

  “Lord Pembroke, where shall I be sitting?” Lady Lucia inquired in her affected glossy tones. She held out one velvet-covered hand; it needed leading.

  “Wherever you please, milady. Pick whatever suits you,” he answered.

  Malcolm gestured to his chair and to Jenna’s. “How about one of these, milady?”

  Jenna’s eyes flew to her father. “Not my chair,” she tried to whisper to him, but he glared back.

  “Don’t be rude,” he hissed.

  “Thank you,” Lady Lucia said, gliding across the floor towa
rd them. She curtsied delicately at the duchess, made an indiscernible nod in the direction of her mother, and then, dexterously pivoting toward Jenna’s father, put her hand out to be kissed. She lowered her gaze and gasped. “You are wearing a skirt!” She pulled her hand back. “Why for are you wearing a skirt?”

  Malcolm glanced around uncomfortably before answering. “Well, milady,” he faltered. “This isna a skirt. It’s a kilt.”

  “Are you mocking women? Is that your intent?” Her eyes were round and disapproving.

  “Nay,” he replied, taken aback, “this is the formal dress of my country and clan.”

  “Lady Lucia.” Lord Pembroke and the countess broke in at the same time.

  “How preposterous,” she said. “Do you know how silly you look in that costume?” She ignored the bulging glare of her mother.

  “I wasna aware, but I’ll try to appreciate your candor.” He turned to Lord Pembroke, who looked aghast, and said, “Perhaps a trip to the north may be helpful in acquainting the lass wi’ the habits of my kind.”

  “Yes,” Lord Pembroke said, glowering at Lady Lucia. “A fine idea.”

  He nodded toward the chair Jenna had vacated to indicate everyone was waiting, and Jenna noticed a small look of regret that clung to the young woman’s face. Jenna felt a thread of compassion among the tangled ball of worries in her stomach. The girl truly was stuck in this role of abominable behavior.

  When at last her bottom made contact with the cushion and her weight fell upon it, it teetered. A splintering crack filled the air as the chair gave in to its burden. She pitched sideways, nearly falling before Lord Pembroke and Malcolm leapt from their seats and saved her from the spill. They settled her into a new chair and had the butler remove the broken furniture. Lady Lucia’s eyes flashed angrily toward Jenna, but there was nothing she could do to defend herself from the accusatory glare.

  Jenna tried fixing a sympathetic expression on her face instead. She watched Lord Pembroke pick up his teacup and the line of conversation. “Where is your clan located?” he asked Malcolm.

  “Mainly in Fife and throughout up to Aberdeen, but our family home is at the foot of West Lomond—nay far from the village of Falkland,” he finished.

  Family home. Jenna huffed. I can’t even remember what it looks like.

  “I’ve never been to Scotland myself,” the Duchess of Keswick said. “I understand it’s stunning.”

  “Oh aye.” Malcolm turned, a smile brightening his face. “According to Jenna, there isna any other place we should be. She pines for it every day.” He patted her hand.

  “Well, I’m sorry His Grace isn’t here,” she continued. Then turning to her son, she said, “You know he’s very keen on hunting in Scotland and would have enjoyed discussing the places he’s visited. But as it is”—she turned back to Malcolm—“he’s away on matters regarding further local unrest. There has been growing talk of the rebellion and rioting. I myself will rest easier once your men have completed the garrison and we can employ several soldiers in it.” Curiosity filled her face. “Has it been difficult going? The progress with the garrison, that is?”

  Jenna’s stomach twisted, thinking of her discussion with Daniel. What would happen to these people once the soldiers arrived, the ammunition—and now the clan leaders too? Would they be held captive? Would they be injured? She would force her father to answer these questions as soon as they were alone.

  “Nay, not a bit.” Malcolm stroked his dark beard. “Apart from a few storms, it’s been a mild winter, and we havena had to stop work on the masonry.”

  “How many men do you have?” the countess asked.

  “Six—and a half, if ye count the wee apprentice.” He chuckled. “We’ve all got specific jobs. Some masonry—cutting and shaping the stones. Others do carpentry—making shutters, floorboards, doors, and such like.”

  “What does the half do?” Lady Lucia said haughtily.

  “I reckon we’ll both find out eventually,” he said, amused.

  “Well, I’m pleased to hear the work is progressing. I will not sleep well until all the Jacobites are rounded up. I hear they’ve done a great amount of damage thus far,” Lady Lucia’s mother said, shaking her head.

  The young woman’s eyes widened in fear and she leaned back into her chair. “How large are their teeth? Do they have horns?”

  “Who?” Lord Pembroke asked, his brows knitting.

  “These ferocious biters—we do not have this animal in Sicily.”

  “They are not animals, Lady Lucia, they are people. Rioters, dissenters, revolutionaries, certainly.” Lord Pembroke waved a hand. “Their unpatriotic quest for power will doubtless cause a civil war.”

  The parlor doors opened again and the butler appeared, crisply apologetic for the interruption. “Master MacDuff, sir, a message for you.”

  Jenna’s father rose and gave Jenna a look of warning as he departed.

  Lucia carried on, distressed. “A war? How close are these Jacobiters and how do they look, so I can recognize them? You must tell me, milord, for I do not want to be taken by one.”

  “Lucia, bella, you do not need to worry. Nobody is after you,” her mother cooed.

  “She’s right, milady.” Lord Pembroke sighed. “And I cannot describe what a Jacobite looks like—it could be anyone. It could be Miss MacDuff, for all we know,” he said, turning his gaze to her.

  Jenna’s heart stopped, but she made a feeble shrug, desperate to appear game.

  The young woman turned her widened eyes toward Jenna and splashed a bit of her tea, spilling it across her lap.

  Lord Pembroke put up a hand. “I wasn’t serious, milady. It was only an example.”

  Lady Lucia rose, dabbing at the tea stains on her gown, tears of frustration brimming at the edges of her eyes. She no longer listened. “I must go change,” she said feebly. She left the parlor with the countess following after, a trail of muttered Sicilian in her wake.

  Malcolm came in amid all the confusion and, expressing regret, explained he was needed back at the garrison and must beg his leave. He asked Jenna if she could manage her way back to the cottage without him and Lord Pembroke interjected, saying, “I will see her there.”

  Malcolm, whose face was turned away from Lord Pembroke’s, raised his eyebrows in question to Jenna. She answered, “I’m sure I can cope on my own.”

  “I won’t hear of it,” Lord Pembroke said firmly. “It’s getting dark. Let me get your cloak.”

  Malcolm put a hasty peck on Jenna’s cheek, and a flash of warning in his eyes before departing. Jenna curtsied and thanked the duchess, then left with Lord Pembroke.

  They walked down the hill from the house toward the cottage, an uneasy silence between them. Jenna dug her nails into the palms of her hands, steaming over his last comments during tea. She itched with the festering criticism but feared his hunches were becoming finely tuned, so she kept quiet and worked at keeping the hem of her dress above the mud.

  “When are you going to announce it?” His eyes searched the horizon and settled on the lake in the distance.

  Her heart plummeted to her stomach. “Announce what?”

  He turned to her, one graceful brow curved. “Your engagement to . . . what’s his name.”

  Engagement? Jenna’s mind scrambled to make use of Lord Pembroke’s misinformation. “Do you mean Daniel?” she asked. She thought about denying it but suddenly felt a terrible pang of sympathy for Lady Lucia and didn’t want to complicate matters further. “Does it really matter? You have the lovely Lady Lucia.”

  They walked together, the sounds of muck beneath their feet. After a moment he spoke. “You make her sound as if she were some sort of gift.”

  Jenna wasn’t inclined to have his bride be the subject of their short conversation, but she made another effort to show an element of kindness. “I’m sure she has her redeeming qualities.”

  They were approaching the cottage and Lord Pembroke slowed. “Yes, I would imagine she does, but
locating them has proven impossible. Strangely enough, I feel obligated to apologize. For her ignorance, at least. She possesses neither skills of diplomacy, nor knowledge of politics.” Lord Pembroke turned a questioning blue gaze at her. “But I sense that you do.”

  Jenna shifted uncomfortably and would not make eye contact with him. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s just another remarkable characteristic you possess, isn’t it?” He eyed her calculatingly, put a hand across the lintel of the doorframe, and barred her way in. “If it were just the fact you could read or write, it would be easy to dismiss the matter. But there are questions about you and your family that keep making the scenario in front of me far more complex than I first thought. You are an enigma, and I’ve been warned to be suspicious of you.” He leaned closer to her, his voice almost a whisper, “So tell me . . . are you a Jacobite?”

  A gunshot exploded behind the cottage. Jenna saw the ground rushing toward her as she felt Lord Pembroke’s weight forcing her down. They lay still for a moment, listening to the wide silence surrounding them. She lifted her chin and scanned the immediate premises while attempting to steady her heartbeat.

  Lord Pembroke raised himself to a crouch and whispered, “Go to the rain barrel—stay by the wall.”

  “Not on your bloody life!” she hissed back. “I’m coming with you.”

  Apparently, her response did not come as a surprise, for he made no protest. They inched up the cottage wall and pressed against it, then edged to the corner to peer around back. Another blast of gunfire filled the air. Jenna clutched the back of his coat. “Stay back!” she pleaded. She pushed herself against the wall, nervous of what lay on the other side. The sounds of voices were close approaching.

  “The auld Stuarts are back again,

  The auld Stuarts are back again;

  Let howlet Whigs do what they can,

  The Stuarts will be back again.”

  Two distinctly drunk singers belted out a rowdy chorus together, and Lord Pembroke looked back at her. Although she could barely make out the features of his face, it wasn’t a challenge to identify the sarcasm unmasked in his voice. “Friends of yours?”