“There is surely some good in him, buried somewhere,” Catherine replied.
“Well, perhaps you shall find it, for I am quite lost on the matter,” Amelia said, leading her sister towards the door of the hall.
Inside the house a cheerier scene presented itself and their father was seated in front of the fire, perusing a book he had picked up in Paris. As they entered, he laid it aside and stretching forward, he warmed his hands in front of the merrily dancing flames in the grate, smiling at them both as they came to sit opposite him.
“I trust you had a pleasant ride. The weather is bracing, is it not?” he said.
“Bracing indeed—it will be an unpleasant journey for Galbreth as he comes down from Scotland,” Catherine said, shaking her head.
“Catherine was just lamenting the fact that Workington and its environs will present little amusement and diversion for our guest,” Amelia said, smiling at her sister, who blushed a little.
“Oh, I don’t know. Lord Torbay will be joining us soon, and we shall entertain one or two visitors to dinner. I am sure our company will be quite acceptable to him. One must make one’s own entertainment at times, mustn’t one? The loveliness of Paris is sadly not always our preserve,” the Earl replied, shaking his head.
“I should like to live in Paris all the time. I don’t understand why I have to come back here when you do, Father. Can I not just stay there?” Catherine said, sounding sulky.
“With no chaperone? The French court would be beating a path to the door, Catherine. No, you most certainly cannot. I issued Galbreth of Beira with an invitation, precisely to try and assuage your boredom here. The fact that he has accepted suggests that he at least will find nothing dull in our company,” the Earl replied.
“Hmph, he is only coming to see Amelia, anyway,” Catherine said, casting a sideways glance at her sister, who blushed and turned away.
“That will do, girls, we will await Galbreth’s arrival tomorrow and I am sure we shall all have the loveliest of times together,” the Earl said, and opening his book, he leant back and began to read, ignoring the looks which passed between his daughters, the unvoiced acknowledgement that Catherine’s words were correct.
* * *
Since his arrival back in Scotland, Feargan had written to Amelia several times, though he knew such a thing was a great impropriety. At first, he simply acknowledged his presence safely home and thanked her again for her gracious hospitality. He told her of the estate, describing the castle and the beauty of the glen, he wrote of his family’s history, and repeated often just how much he had enjoyed her company in Paris. But as the weeks went by his words had become more intimate and he expressed his longing to see her, just as soon as possible.
The Earl of Workington was as good as his word, and having taken a liking to the young Scottish nobleman, he agreed to both his daughters’ demands that an invitation should be issued. Feargan was only too happy to accept and wrote in the most enthusiastic terms of his excitement to be travelling south of the border to Workington.
Amelia was delighted to hear of his acceptance, and she had spent the past few days in ever greater expectation of his arrival. Since she had first laid eyes upon him at the Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, Amelia had found herself enchanted by the handsome, yet somewhat rugged, Scottish nobleman.
Feargan had an air of romance about him, as though his life were like that of the stories she had read as girl, in which noble men battled against mythical beasts and created legends amidst the hills and moorlands of a Scotland she only dreamed about. He had a charm about him which was captivating and, it seemed, little time for the stiff aristocratic ways which so fixated her class and gave direction to the rules of life at the court in exile.
In the company of Feargan Galbreth, Amelia had felt as though she had taken a breath of the purest mountain air and she could not wait to breathe it in again.
* * *
It would take Feargan some ten days travel to reach Workington from Loch Beira and he had set out early on that first day, once again leaving his Godfather in charge of the estate.
“Gallivanting away again, lad. Folk will say that their Laird is never here,” Alexander Galbreth said, as he stood watching Feargan climb into his carriage.
“The journey is nae long this time, Uncle, and ye will dae a grand job of caring for these good people in my absence, I ken ye will,” Feargan said, smiling at the old man, who just shook his head and laughed.
“Is it a woman ye chase after?” he asked. “I hope she is a bonnie one,” he said, as the driver clicked to the horses and the carriage departed along the muddy track from the castle.
“Aye, a bonnie lass she is.” Feargan shouted back, “Goodbye, Uncle, and take care of yerself until I return.”
“Ye too, Feargan, ye too,” his uncle called, as he watched the carriage disappearing up into the hills.
Feargan sat back, looking out over his estates. The moorlands were showing their first signs of spring and the skies were empty and vast, stretching out towards the distant mountains beyond. He found himself humming snatches of tunes he knew and the day passed quickly as he juddered and bounced along the rough uneven roads south into the lowlands.
Feargan had thought of little else except his journey to Workington during these past few days. It would certainly be different to Paris, but he wondered whether Amelia and Catherine would be different? Their life upon the continent must be so very different to that in the remoteness of Cumberland. What did they find to amuse themselves? Would his company be enough to distract them from the dullness which inevitably comes when one leave such a metropolis behind?
It was Amelia he longed to see. He had thought of little else and whilst he knew her to be forbidden fruit, he could not help but long to be in her company again. She had captivated him from their very first meeting and each day since his return to Scotland he had found himself playing over their conversations in his mind and imagining their future encounters.
Her beauty was quite striking and how cruel a game fate played that it should soon be the possession of Lord Torbay. Feargan hoped beyond hope that Lord Torbay would not be present at Workington Hall, though he feared that if he had received word that Feargan was to pay a visit then he, too, would make himself present forthwith. Still, it was worth it if Feargan was able to snatch a few moments alone with Amelia. He was in no doubt that her feelings for him, too, were aroused—the letters between them spoke for themselves.
The day was drawing on and the driver called down from above that he would soon halt at an inn along the road. Feargan was reminded of the involuntary overnight stay on the road to Saint-Germain-en-Laye and prayed that tonight he might be simply left alone and make it an early night. He drew out his pocket watch and checked the time, which was close on six o’clock, darkness having now fallen on the road as he squinted through the gloomy candle-lit interior of the carriage.
The watch was amongst his most prized possessions, a gift from his mother, which had once belonged to his grandfather. The case was decorated with her coat of arms, the familiar two red hands and a dagger upon a white shield, surrounded by gold and red plumage and a helmet upon which sat a proud stag’s head. It was one of the few items he possessed that reminded him of her and he stowed it safely back into his pocket as the carriage came to a halt.
“The inn is here, Laird,” the driver called down. “I will stable the horses and wait for ye here in the morning.”
“Aye, very well,” Feargan replied, clambering out of the carriage.
The inn was set back a little from the road, a solitary candle placed in a window above. There was no one else around, quite unlike the rowdy scenes in France. It was a lonely spot, the dark clouds of the night sky now rolling over, the inn sign creaking in the wind.
“Aye, well, it shall be worth it to see Amelia,” Feargan said to himself, as he pushed open the door and was greeted by the landlord.
* * *
Feargan passed a tole
rable night in the inn. The landlord was suspicious of him at first, wondering why a man claiming to be the Laird of Loch Beira should be staying in such a humble abode. Once Feargan had explained his journey and his desire to reside at those residences which favored those of Jacobite persuasion, the man relaxed a little, providing Feargan with a hearty supper and what he claimed was the best bedroom in the house.
The bed itself was dirty and moth-eaten, and the curtains failed to keep out the draft from cracked window. Nevertheless, Feargan passed a peaceful night, since no other guests were at the hands of the landlord’s hospitality. Feargan awoke early and washing himself in the chipped and rather dirty washbowl he made himself as presentable as possible, ready for the onward journey.
The driver had the horses harnessed and prepared to depart as Feargan emerged, thanking the landlord for his gracious welcome and assuring him that they would stop upon the return journey. As he climbed into the carriage, he glanced back along the road into Scotland before turning his face southwards. The milestone indicated the city of Carlisle to be some thirty miles south and it was not long before the carriage was making its way towards the border city from which it was just a day’s travel on to Workington and Amelia.
We need not trouble ourselves with an account of Feargan’s stay in the city which prides itself on being thoroughly of English persuasion. He always felt somewhat nervous south of the border, as though he were a stranger in a foreign land, which in many ways he was for despite the Act of Union, the two countries were still very different.
Feargan stayed the night at an inn in the shadow of the cathedral and listened to the bells of that once Catholic church ringing out the call to evensong as he took an early dinner in his rooms. The Galbreth’s had always maintained the old faith, despite the persecutions, and several of his cousins had been priests, secreted across the channel to Rome and Douai from whence they returned to celebrate the sacraments on risk of death.
Feargan always carried his mother’s rosary beads with him, secreted, along with the pocket watch, in his tunic pocket. That night he took them out, slipping the beads through his fingers in silent prayer for whatever fortune was to come. He slept badly that night, his anticipation of seeing Amelia heightening by the hour and when the bells of the cathedral rang out again for Matins, he roused the carriage driver and they went on their way.
As they left Carlisle behind, the carriage passed the gallows outside the castle, a scene of much Scottish bloodshed. Feargan crossed himself and pulled across the carriage curtain as they took the road towards Workington.
“We shall be at Workington Hall by nightfall, Laird,” the driver called down.
“Aye, and not a moment too soon,” Feargan replied.
* * *
It was getting dark as the carriage pulled up the steep hill towards Workington Hall. Several candles burned in the windows and it was clear that their arrival was anticipated. Feargan pulled down the carriage window and peered out through the gloom. They had come through trees, the sounds of jackdaws and crows calling from above them. The moon was high in the sky above, illuminating the scene with its milky glow.
“Workington Hall, Laird,” the driver called and Feargan prepared himself to greet his hosts.
How different all this was to Paris, with its lights and grandeur, wide boulevards and striking buildings. The hall sat atop a hill overlooking the village and Feargan could make out little of the landscape about him. The faint lights of the houses below were just visible through the gathering gloom.
“A lonely place,” he said to himself, as the carriage came to a halt. “Though no lonelier than Loch Beira.” Looking out of the window he was pleased to see the familiar figure of Amelia in the open doorway, her sister at her side.
10
There was excitement amongst the household as the sounds of the approaching carriage were heard. Amelia and Catherine rushed through the house, calling for the servants to come and assist with the Laird’s bags. It was Catherine who arrived at the door first, throwing it open as the carriage pulled up outside
“We thought you were never going to arrive,” Catherine said, rushing down the steps and throwing open the door of the carriage.
“Let Galbreth catch his breath for a moment, Catherine. You are like an expectant puppy yapping at his feet,” Amelia said, stepping forward as Feargan stepped down from the carriage.
“The journey is a long one and has taken several days, but I am here now, and the warmth of the welcome has made it worth it,” Feargan replied, bowing to both Catherine and Amelia in turn.
“I am only sorry that you arrive in darkness. The approach is somewhat improved in the daylight, and with the season so changeable, I fear the weather does not help in the presentation of Workington Hall as a lonely place at the end of a road which leads nowhere,” Amelia said, as they stepped inside.
“It is hardly improved in the daylight, Amelia, and as I have said, quite what we shall find to entertain Feargan with is quite beyond me,” Catherine said, babbling, as seemed to be her way when faced with men for whom she had developed something of an attraction.
“Yer company is enough,” Feargan replied, as he removed his cloak and travelling clothes.
* * *
A fire was stoked in the hallway and candles burned, illuminating the scene. He could see the two young ladies properly now. Both were dressed prettily in gowns of blue and gold, their hair tied back in a more formal fashion than it had appeared in Paris. It seemed that here in England, where a Protestant King sat upon a throne, the Bartons adopted a more discreet appearance, though both young ladies were still amongst the prettiest Feargan had ever laid eyes upon.
The hall itself was impressive, at least for an English house so far north. The hallway was richly decorated with portraiture and hanging tapestries, the subtle influence of the French court seen in certain items of furniture which sat against the walls or surrounded the hearth.
The servants took care of the Laird’s bags. Divested of his travelling regalia, Feargan felt as though he had entered the home of friends, which of course he had. Amelia and Catherine led him through the dark passages of the house, paneled and lined with suits of armor and further portraits of the Earl’s long dead ancestors, to a large room in which the Earl of Workington himself sat by the fire. His foot was perched upon a stool, for he had spent the day suffering with his gout.
“Ah, our friend the Laird. You are most welcome, sir, and forgive me for not getting up to greet you. I am suffering the affliction of good living, though out here one wonders if it is simply a curse,” he said, laughing, as Feargan shook his hand.
“It is an honor to greet ye again, My Lord, and to be a guest in yer home. It is a fine place and make nay mistake,” Feargan said, seating himself opposite the Earl, who nodded his head.
“I trust your journey was uneventful? One no longer finds the roads as dangerous as once they were, though one must always be on one’s guard, don’t you think?” the Earl said, wincing a little as he shifted in his chair.
“Aye, and amidst the border country there are still those who would wish harm to come to those who travel through their country,” Feargan said.
“Tell us about the castle, and the estate, what exciting things have happened there in the past months since your return,” Catherine said, interrupting excitedly and causing Amelia to laugh.
“Allow Feargan a little time to rest, Catherine. He has only just arrived in our midst and already you demand that he entertain us,” she said.
“Well, I only want to hear what he has to say,” Catherine said, sounding a little grumpy.
“There will be plenty of time for such things in the coming days. Right now, I should think our guest is hungry and eager for his bed,” the Earl said, and taking up a little bell from a table at his side, he rang it vigorously until the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard.
“Yes, My Lord,” the maid said, entering the room as the Earl ceased his excitable ring
ing. She was a small girl, no more than sixteen, and looked nervously at Feargan who smiled and nodded to her
“We shall have supper in here, Lucy, and then see to it that Galbreth’s bed is prepared for him in the bedroom which our former guest once slept in,” The Earl said, as the young girl nodded.
“Yer former guest?” Feargan said, looking puzzled.
“Yes, you are not the only Scot to have stayed here. Workington Hall was the place where dear Mary, Queen of Scots, spent her last night, the fifteenth of May, fifteen sixty-eight, a most auspicious guest. And it was here she wrote to her dear cousin, for all the good it did to her,” The Earl said, shaking his head.
“A tragedy,” Feargan replied.
“And if it were not for such an unhappy outcome we might all be better off today,” the Earl replied, as the servants brought in their supper.
Highlander's Hidden Destiny (Steamy Scottish Historical) Page 8