Monty also had an abnormal fondness for dogs. He must own at least ten of them of various and sundry lineages. Outside, inside, everywhere, the house was surrounded by dogs. One or two were at his heels wherever he went.
Monty could have chosen anywhere to live, but he’d chosen this quiet spot of Scotland where he didn’t have family or close friends. Indeed, Harry and Monty had come upon each other by chance. Harry had just arrived in Glenfinnan and been riding down the road, and there had been Monty, riding in the opposite direction. He hadn’t hesitated in inviting Harry to stay with him. Harry had asked him why he was in Glenfinnan but Monty had been unusually closed-lipped.
In truth, Harry’s problems were so large, he did not have the luxury of worrying over his friend’s concerns. So he’d let the subject drop.
“I shall be leaving on the morrow,” he said to Monty as he speared a healthy-sized piece of venison for his plate. He shook his head at the servant offering peas. Harry was fond of any food as long as it wasn’t green. “I have appreciated your hospitality.”
“You can’t go,” Monty said.
Harry looked up in surprise. “I must. You know I am here on a mission.”
“Are you certain you have met all the witches in the area? There are quite a few.”
“There aren’t any,” Harry said flatly. He chewed his food a moment without tasting it. He had no appetite. Food was something he needed for the strength to continue his search. “Well, save for that lonely old woman who lives in a hovel and chatters to herself all day. Crazy Lizzy is her name.” Harry had given her ten pounds. He’d felt sorry for her. “They may look, and smell, like witches, but they are not. The woman I’m looking for is the one who placed the curse on my family. I’m searching for Fenella, or someone connected to her.”
“You carry on about this Fenella as if you believe her still alive, even after hundreds of years.”
“I know she is,” Harry answered. “Some part of her must be alive or the curse would not be as strong as it is.”
“Then you must stay right here in Glenfinnan. This is a very mystical part of Scotland. I think you should stay.” A servant poured ale in Monty’s tankard, and the general reached for it immediately.
Picking up his own glass of sweet cider, Harry shook his head. “I can’t, Monty. My brother is growing weaker. I had a letter from my sister today. We don’t know how much time he has. I must find a way to save him or he will die.”
“Your brother. Yes,” Monty said, his expression stricken. “I forgot him. Sorry, sorry.” He reached for a piece of venison off his plate and absently began feeding his dogs from the table.
A cold dog nose nudged Harry’s arm. He gave the dog a pet and shooed it away, a bit concerned by Monty’s behavior. His old friend would not forget such a detail as Harry’s purpose for being in Glenfinnan. “Monty, is there something the matter?”
The general drained his tankard, held it for a servant to be refilled, and then motioned him away, saying, “Leave us.” He waited until the door had closed behind the servant before leaning across the table. “I need your help, Chattan. I’ve put off asking since you have concerns of your own, but I’m desperate. I thought when I met you that here was exactly what I needed—a man who can claim any woman he wishes.”
Harry didn’t challenge the description. It was true. Women flocked to him. They always had.
It wasn’t vanity for him to admit that he had looks they liked. It was a statement of fact. God had blessed him with a face and form that was pleasing to the ladies. And he had used them to his own advantage—until he’d set out upon this quest.
Now, he was beginning to wonder how he could have been so shallow. Of course, he was free of the chains of opium and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a drink. No, that was a lie. He remembered all too well and he hated himself for it.
But he was curious why Monty thought this an asset. Monty was an avowed bachelor, or that was the impression Harry had gained.
“What’s amiss, Monty?”
His friend sat back in his chair. A terrier jumped into his lap. Monty absently petted its head as he said, “I need you to help me attend the Christmas Assembly.”
“A dance?”
Monty nodded vigorously.
Harry shook his head slowly. “I can’t wait around for the dance, Monty. My brother’s life is at stake.”
“The dance is in four days, Chattan. You can wait four days.”
“I don’t remember you eager to attend any dances back when I served under your command,” Harry said. “You usually avoided them.”
“I did,” Monty said. He pushed the dog off his lap and threw the animals another piece of meat. They yapped and snarled over it. “Not my thing.”
“Then why must you attend this dance?” Harry asked, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table.
“Because she will be there.”
“Who is she?” Harry had to ask, intrigued.
“Lady Ariana Maclean.”
“Maclean?” The name sounded familiar.
“Do you not remember Black Jack Maclean?” Monty said to prod Harry’s memory.
Harry pushed away from the table. “That sorry rascal! He was married? I pity the woman he took for a wife.”
“I do as well,” Monty said. “Her life has not been easy.”
“Does she know he had at least two families on the Peninsula?” Harry asked. “The man was a scoundrel. He wasn’t even a good officer. He spent most of his time as far behind the lines as possible.”
“He was a coward,” Monty agreed. “But he was an even worse husband.”
“To all his wives,” Harry had to quip. Everyone in the regiment knew Maclean lived with different women as man and wife. He wasn’t the only one to do so. Many soldiers did—but the practice had never set well with Harry.
“Aye, he was bad . . . and I hate what he did to Ariana.” Now it was Monty leaning across the table. “Harry, you should meet her. She’s the loveliest female that has ever graced this earth. Since first we met, there hasn’t been a day of my life when I haven’t thought of her. Not a day that has passed when I haven’t wanted her.”
“Why, Monty, you are in love.”
“Yes. Yes, yes, a hundred times yes. I love Ariana Williams.”
“That was her maiden name?”
“Her family lived not far from mine. I was first introduced to her when I was fourteen and she twelve.”
“And you have loved her all this time?”
Monty sadly nodded yes.
Harry studied his friend in a new light. He was no fan of love. One couldn’t be given his family history. His parents had both been cold people, until his mother died and his father had gone mad over an opera dancer whom he had made his second countess. And then the curse had claimed him. His father had died soon after the marriage.
Now Love was claiming the life of his brother.
But Monty’s declaration was a complete puzzlement. “If you were so enamored, why didn’t you speak up before she married Black Jack?” Harry asked.
“I tried, or I wished to do so. I’m not good with words.”
“You are speaking clearly right now.”
“But I can’t speak to her. And then she chose Maclean over me. I tried to warn her but ended discussing the weather instead, and I had a hard time doing that.”
“She made a poor choice. Being shot in a duel by an angry husband is not an honorable death.”
“Yes, the Portuguese are not as reserved about adultery as we British are,” Monty agreed. “The worst is that he had resigned his commission.” One of the dogs put his paws on the table to catch his master’s attention. “Down, Jasper,” Monty said, pushing him away and then offering a crust of bread.
“So the family has nothing?” Harry shifted in his chair. “Well, it
is the rare man who can afford three families.”
“I don’t know if Ariana is aware of what a scoundrel her husband was. They say the reason Ariana moved her family to Scotland was because it is less expensive to live here. I love her, Chattan. I love her completely and honestly and secretively. I want to change that. I want her to know. I could do so much to help her family, if she would let me.”
“Then speak to her,” Harry advised.
Monty raised tortured eyes to Harry’s and said, “No. I’m afraid to even call on her.”
“Why? What are you waiting for?” Harry demanded. “She needs a man to support her and you are one of the best. You have position, you have fortune, and she has your heart. What woman could resist such a man? None that I know. Call on her tomorrow. Make a declaration. Neither of you is growing any younger.”
Monty gripped the edge of the table. “I can’t face her alone. When I think about it, I’m petrified. I can’t talk, I can’t think, I can’t move.” He raised a pleading gaze to Harry. “But I could face her at the dance if you would speak for me.”
“Oh no,” Harry said. He held up a hand warding the suggestion away.
“You must.”
“I must not,” Harry replied. “I have done this before, Monty. I’ve had friends ask me to speak to their ladyloves for them and it has never ended well.”
“But I’m not just any friend.”
“That you aren’t,” Harry agreed, “which is all the more reason I should decline. I like you, Monty. Maclean’s widow will like you as well, in fact more so. Be yourself, be kind, be attentive, and she will be yours.”
“I’m tongue-tied around her,” Monty lamented. “You don’t have to do much. Just go to the dance with me. Be there for support.”
“Monty, I can’t stay here that long—”
“It’s in four days—”
“My brother is dying. I can’t stay. My quest is for an end to this curse. Once I’ve found what I’m looking for, I’ll return to Glenfinnan and go to however many dances you wish and talk to any number of women. But right now, I can’t, sir, and I beg of you to understand.”
The general’s back stiffened. He would not meet Harry’s eye as he said, “Have it your way then. I shall wait. I’ve waited decades already.”
The pronouncement ended dinner. Harry’s appetite had left him. He did not like disappointing an old friend. Then again, he didn’t understand all this nonsense over a woman. He rose from the table. “I value our friendship,” he said. “I have always respected you when under your command. I apologize, Monty, but my brother’s life is a higher priority.” ’
“Of course it is,” Monty said. “I understand. I’m just—” He broke off as if words failed him. He attempted to smile. It was a pathetic thing.
“Do you know your Shakespeare, Monty? ‘Love is merely a madness, and I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do,’ ” Harry quoted.
“Yes, she makes me mad. But it is my own fear that disturbs me. I would rather face French cannon than make a fool of myself in front of her.”
“You can’t make a fool of yourself in front of a good woman,” Harry said. “They are the kindest of creatures and amazingly forgiving.”
“She’s all I’ve ever wanted, Chattan. I fear the risk of losing any contact with her.”
Harry studied his friend. The man appeared done up, and yet Harry could have sympathy only to a point. He rose from the table. “I shall return and help you, but I must go.”
However, before Harry could leave, a servant entered the room carrying a silver salver bearing a letter. “Colonel Chattan, we found this on the front step. It is addressed to you.”
“Left on the front step?” Monty said. “Did they knock on the door? The dogs didn’t make a sound.”
“They were all in here, sir,” the servant said. “You know how they are during the dinner hour. And we didn’t hear a sound from outside. It was by chance we looked outside and found the letter.”
Harry took the letter. It was addressed to “Chattan.” The stationery was thin and cheaply made. He broke the wax seal, unfolded the letter, and what he read changed everything:
Meet me at the Great Oak, tomorrow, midnight.
Fenella
Chapter Three
Becoming a witch was no easy trick.
Portia obviously couldn’t dress as herself. She would not want that scowling Englishman to know who she was. She also needed to convince him she was a witch—but how did a witch look?
She could wear rags like Crazy Lizzy did, but she decided she didn’t want to be that sort of witch. And she knew she would have to do something to hide her face.
After finishing her tasks around the house, she disappeared to her room to give proper consideration to her costume. She had excuses ready in case her mother or Minnie asked questions, but they weren’t necessary. Her mother had deemed today would be one of “those” days, which meant she would not come downstairs at all.
And Minnie was still mourning the loss of Mr. Tolliver. She had cared deeply for the man. Portia had tried to buoy her spirits the night before but her sister was disconsolate.
“You will see him at the Christmas Assembly,” Portia had said. The desired invitation had finally arrived the evening before and their mother had been very pleased after remarking on the poor form in delivering invitations at such a late date. Apparently, the kirk committee had a bit of a spat, so all the invitations had been late. Most in the valley assumed they would be invited, so for most the lateness didn’t matter.
Not so Lady Maclean.
However, now she was happy and insisting that Minnie would be the belle of the ball.
Portia hadn’t involved herself in their discussion. She was too busy plotting how to be a witch. But she had taken advantage of the messenger and had asked him to deliver “Fenella’s” letter to General Montheath’s residence. The lad had been happy to comply for a small coin and even pleased to be sworn to secrecy.
Over supper, Portia smiled at Minnie. “With this invitation, you now have the opportunity to talk to Mr. Tolliver and explain that Mother does not speak for you.”
“Shouldn’t he know for himself?” Minnie asked. “Shouldn’t he have cared enough for my opinion to speak to me himself and express his concerns?”
Portia didn’t know what to say to those charges, and her silence was damning.
“I don’t want a man in my life who is like Papa,” Minnie said. “He treated Mother as if she was just a chair in the dining room. I expect far more respect.” With that very sage declaration, Minnie left their table. When Portia went up to her room, she heard crying as she passed her sister’s door.
Was it any wonder then that Portia threw herself into becoming a witch?
With the money she received from the English Chattan, they could even return to London, although Portia would resist the idea, or they could provide a handsome dowry for Minnie that would make Mr. Tolliver wish that he had been more steadfast. So becoming a convincing witch, or at least one worth three hundred pounds, was very important.
Owl helped. The cat lay on her bed and served as an audience as Portia tried on one outfit after another.
Since she didn’t want to be an ugly witch, she decided to consider the classics she loved so much.
There was Medusa with a head full of snakes. No thank you.
Cicero, the beautiful temptress who turned Ulysses’ men into swine. As appealing as it would be to turn this Englishman into a stout pig, Portia didn’t see herself as a temptress.
Finally, she decided to design a wood sprite theme. She took an old work dress in brown sacking and stitched holly branches to the skirt. The sharp points of the leaves made the dress prickly and the material heavy, but Portia was willing to sacrifice her comfort.
A visit up to the attic yielded a
swath of old, musty plaid that Portia threw around her shoulders. No one would expect to see her in plaid. She was too English.
However, her true find in the attic was a monstrous, wide-brimmed hat woven of straw. Portia adored it. She bent the brim so that it would hide her face and decorated the crown with some of the plaid and more holly.
Gazing at her image in the mirror, she thought the effect quite stunning.
“What do you think, Owl?” she asked as she twirled herself around.
Owl’s response was to jump down from the bed and rub herself against Portia’s leg, purring.
Changing out of the prickly dress, Portia sat down on the floor, pulling the cat in her lap. “All right. Now for a spell.” She reached under the bed and brought out Fenella’s book. “The man is looking for a spell to break a curse, Owl. There must be something in here that I can say and earn the money with some honesty.”
The cat didn’t respond but curled up in her lap and went to sleep, one eye opening from time to time to check on Portia.
For the next hour, she studied the book—and found nothing. There weren’t even curses in the book.
But there was one strange little recitation for removing all obstacles. The instructions said it had to be recited five times. “Power of All Beings abound,” Portia read aloud. “Clear my path that I may walk, Clear my eye that I may see, Depart all that would stop me from being free.”
She frowned, scratching a place on her neck where the holly leaf had pricked her. “That doesn’t sound witchy.” She set Owl aside and came to her feet. She crossed to the mirror above her chest of drawers and said the curse again, holding the heavy book with one hand.
No, this wasn’t working.
Portia set the book on the wardrobe and practiced being a witch. She tried different voices and postures. She worked at keeping her hat low over her face while raising her arms and calling out, “Power of All Beings,” to dramatize the spell.
Eventually, she reached the point where she could repeat the poem and not feel silly. In fact, she was rather proud of her witch.
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