“I thought ye may hae taken a wrong turn, Captain.” Beathan’s voice interrupted my deciphering and I turned with slight irritation to greet him. He held a glass out in his hand. “Welcome tae Castle Markinch, home of the Clunes.”
Accepting the glass with a smile, I nodded in return, “Thank you for the invitation to dine. It has been many months since I graced a seat at a proper dining table. I will concentrate on not making a bore of myself this evening.” I lifted my glass to match Beathan’s salute and we drank together. The Scotch tasted incredibly fine, much better quality than I ever sampled in the past. I turned the glass over to admire the colour.
“One of the perks of coming round fur supper,” Beathan grimaced. “My faither is auld and tired and my sister is firmly on the shelf, hardly the best companions fur a meal. However, ye get to dip intae the guid stock.” He winked. “We can nae hae folk around and drink the standard we send out tae the rest of the masses.”
I gave Beathan another salute and took another pull. I could definitely become accustomed to the smooth, smoky flavour of this Scotch. The quality so different from the bottle I consumed the past evening. I never would have thought it came from the same family still.
“Beathan, I know ye would prefer tae keep the captain all tae yerself out there. However, Faither would enjoy meeting our guest.” A firm, soft voice called from the open doorway, the brogue similar to Beathan’s, light with only the touch of an accent to make it sound exotic.
My companion shrugged his shoulders in apology and led the way into a large, stately drawing room. Oil lamps and a few candles lit the large space, a fire burned in a marble hearth set on the opposite side of the wall, two delicate couches faced one another in front. One occupied by an older gentlemen and a woman no longer in the blossom of youth, however far from old. Everything in the room spoke the success of Deoch, from the gilt picture frames and mirrors on the walls, to the rest of the furniture grouped together to form smaller parties of conversation in the room. Even the thick rugs underfoot felt lavish.
“We dinnae stand on much formality here, Captain,” the old man stood and swept his sharp eyes over my attire. I knew he missed nothing from my bald head to my slightly scuffed boots. His own jacket, worn over a linen shirt to compliment his kilt, spoke of an expensive cut made to look serviceable. He wore a small wig with the long white hair caught in a black ribbon.
I gave him a short bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Clunes. Thank you for the invitation to dine. I informed Beathan on my arrival it is a rare occurrence for an old army captain.” Pretty words and platitudes may not be my trade, however I was not above a bit of flattery.
“Nae, ye must call me Magnus, Mr Clunes is only fur folk who owe me coin.” He sat back down on the sofa with a huff, and took up his Scotch, an example of a man not born to wealth or privilege. Who may have never even aspired to either, yet he sat in the drawing room of a disgraced Lord and reigned over all he surveyed. He earned respect.
Turning to the woman standing next to the sofa, I made another short bow. She politely returned the favour, and wore a curious rather than a friendly smile. “Captain, welcome tae our home, since my brither appears tae hae forgotten his duty tae me.” She shot Beathan a mild look of annoyance. “I am Philomena Clunes, please spare me the Miss Clunes, it only grates on the fact I am nae miss at all.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Philomena,” the unusual name rolled from the tongue and threatened to trip the unwary speaker. Dressed in a simple gown, with no bows or ruffles, she wore her hair in a severe bun at the back of her head, no wig and no powder on her face, not even the hint of a black beauty patch marred her creamy complexion. If we met by chance in a ballroom, or even in the street, I do not think I would have given her a second glance. Something in her green eyes warranted a second look. Intelligent, not striking as my wife’s dark eyes and hair, any man meeting Onatah would fall immediately in love with her.
Philomena turned to acknowledge a discreet cough from another doorway, nodding she turned back. “I think Cook is ready fur us,” she leaned down to help her father from the low couch. He held her arm as they led the way through to the heavily decorated dining room with a table set cosily for four, even though it could easily fit twenty diners. I tried to reconcile the fabulous display of wealth of both the drawing room and the dining room with the subdued appearance of my three supper companions. They gave no hint at the opulent tastes surrounding them. The room would be the envy of any society hostess in London.
Beathan leaned over from his seat next to mine and with a nod he indicated the room at large. “My late mother’s tastes ran tae the fanciful, as an heiress from a great family she took pleasure in redecorating the castle tae current fashion.” He smiled at Philomena. “If only my younger sister could delight in such pastimes, perhaps she would be seated at her own table this evening.”
Sniffing in contempt, “I see nae reason fur me tae leave Faither’s board.” Philomena let the server shake out and place her napkin. “My absence would only result in a complete lack of female entertainment in this household. It isnae as if we were in danger of yer wife making an imminent appearance.”
Choking back a laugh into my soup – Philomena certainly knew how to expose a man – I felt myself relax in the presence of the two siblings. Bickering looked commonplace between them and their father’s smile showed a true affection for the two. It was rare to see a man take such concern over his children.
Philomena gently laid her spoon to rest on the table, frowning at Beathan before she spoke directly to me, “Captain, before my brither and I ruin this pleasant evening baiting each other with auld grievances. Let us turn a new page. We hae heard of yer recently being in Boston, please tell us of yer adventures.”
Three faces peered over the supper table eager to hear of the adventures of a soldier in the New World, to delight in learning of the hardships faced away from civilization, gasp over the brutality to be found and be warmed over the vast richness of the land I had left behind. My heart still beat across the ocean. “I am afraid I am not much of a storyteller and you will find me incredibly dull.”
Magnus selected a portion of roast lamb from the attendant and waved his hand in my direction. “Nonsense, Captain, we are only the three of us, except when Beathan or Philomena’s friends come fur a stay in the country fur distraction. Though I secretly ponder what distractions Markinch could possibly hold over the likes of Auld Reikie or London, we are in want of honest company.”
“Indeed, Captain, ye will be doing me a favour by speaking on the subject.” Philomena leaned forward in her seat. “Books on the New World are exceedingly hard tae come by all the way up here and I am currently waiting fur my copy of Dr Preston’s newly published experiences of his adventures in the Americas. My friends are reading it now.”
“Dinnae encourage her, Captain, she is a bluestocking of the worst order. Faither and I despair she will ever find a husband now she is well and truly on the shelf.” Beathan gave his younger sister a condescending glance and turned his gaze to me. “I apologise fur my sister’s lack of decorum.”
“Captain, let me make an apology tae ye fur my children’s behaviour. Ye might hae lived among the wild men of the America’s however our own lack of genteel company has adversely affected the manners at my table.” Magnus gave Beathan and Philomena a hard stare. “Perhaps ye could tell us why ye chose tae enter the military ranks.”
There would be no escape this evening from topics I tended to avoid in all company. Markinch was no place to keep secrets and why should I be resolved to hold old wounds to my chest, my tenancy already at less than a year. “In fact I joined the regiment on a whim to escape my uncle’s plans for a planned marriage.” I felt strangely disappointed by the lack of response from any of my dinner companions, Beathan continued to dish roast capon into his mouth, Philomena’s eyes glazed over and Magnus nodded sagely. As if he possessed a great understanding of the young and their foi
bles.
“As my uncle’s only heir, he felt prompted to arrange a good marriage for me in order to continue our line infinitely into the future.” I pushed my plate away. I forced my mind to recall Lady Strathmore. All the small details of the late afternoon from the chiming of the clock on the mantelpiece to her delicately rouged lips. She was the débutante of the season. She possessed every social grace of young woman of quality. She sang, played an instrument, spoke several languages well. She was rich and, not unlike other women of her station, she was cruel to those she believed undeserving of her attention. I had witnessed her pitiless behaviour first hand.
“I knew from the first we could never suit. I pleaded with my uncle to end the engagement. He would not and I joined the regiment to escape.” I thought of the look on Mr Wick’s caring face as I pounded on the knocker at his townhouse, demanding entrance. “With some help from an old friend, I enrolled in my late father’s platoon and was soon away to Boston.”
“It is fashionable fur a man tae hae at least one broken engagement these days.” Philomena remarked sourly, not meeting my eye, instead watching the serving staff clear away the plates. “Young men need a hint of scandal in order tae get intae the best drawing rooms. Where the incomparables are hidden away from the rest of society.”
Magnus cleared his throat at the end of the table. “The papers speak of the immense riches of the New World, tobacco and cotton plantations spring intae life with nary a problem. Huge shipbuilding yards produce vessels with the latest inventions. It is a land of opportunity where with a little capital, a man might make much fur himself.”
“The papers have the right of it, most of the time. It’s a hard life for settlers away from the protection of towns or militia. Especially as the French are wont to make skirmishes into our territory in order to expand their influence with their ungodly ways.” I shrugged my shoulders. I was no longer an active soldier. I was a cog in a wheel of bureaucracy.
With the mention of the French, Beathan lifted his head from the next course and leaned towards me. “All the French be damned.” Magnus raised his wineglass with a quiet. “Hear, hear,” while Philomena rolled her eyes. Beathan continued. “Did ye fight the dastardly fellows yerself, Captain? We only receive the barest of news when it comes tae fighting in the Americas.”
I studied Philomena’s profile across the table. She had studiously ignored my gaze since I mentioned jilting Lady Strathmore. She clearly believed an alliance with her own sex much more important than civil conversation to aid in digestion. Not unlike other high-strung females of my acquaintance. Finally, she turned her green eyes to meet mine. “I assure ye, Captain, any mention of atrocities in which ye participated in the New World will nae make me think any less of ye.”
The challenge hit the table. Magnus and Beathan watched the pair of us warily. “There are no real battles to be had with the French, nothing to give a complete victory to either side, mostly because of the frugality of each country’s government. The policy is to harvest the Americas with as little inconvenience as possible. The summer months mean the regiment and the Boston Militia are often away for long stretches. Raiding enemy territory, harassing French towns and villages.” I did not avert my eyes from Philomena’s face. “The intent to terrorise the population into leaving with pain and murder.”
Immediately I regretted being goaded into discussing the burn and pillage policy of the English Army. It was the same as the French side, but as a boy, I had imagined armies in a line, fighting with valour and honour. Not the gut-clenching savagery of raiding a family farm, putting the inhabitants to death and stealing their food to feed ourselves before planning the next campaign of terror.
“The ladies of Boston must all be aflutter with tales of yer extraordinary deeds done in the name of England.” Philomena watched as a server placed a portion of blancmange on her dessert plate. “Tell us something nae connected with yerself, describe the savages who live in wilds. Ye must hae surely met some while destroying the livelihood of innocent French folk.”
“Magnus, you are harbouring a French sympathiser at your table.” Philomena opened her mouth to argue however I continued swiftly. “The French are the natural enemy to England, you cannot be ignorant of this fact as it is splashed across the pages of history in both our nations in blood. In fact, it is the people of the Americas who suffer the most during the conflict.”
“Captain, I dinnae think anyone at this table would believe the French hae been anything but instigators of conflict when it comes tae English happiness.” Magnus once again cleared his throat loudly. “They hae even condescended tae ally themselves with us Scots on occasion. If only tae tweak the noses of the English.”
This dinner would soon end in a farce if I did not regain control of my temper. I have never before allowed a woman to provoke me into behaving poorly. “The land as you mentioned before, Magnus, is full of promise. It takes hard work and determination to beat back the wilderness and force it into proper production. Women and men must make huge sacrifices to gain returns. There is no one singular tribe amongst the Indians of the Americas. There are hundreds of different bands, speaking multiple different languages. All with their own customs and, depending on their territory, with different modes of survival. Some live from hunting buffalo over the Great Plains. Others fish from the sea part of the year and hunt during others: it is all incredibly complicated.”
“It sounds as if ye hae put some study intae such matters.” Beathan smiled at Philomena. “Here is yer first hand account of the lives of folk in the Americas. If only ye could be patient with the Captain instead of haranguing him like an angry fishwife. Is it any wonder men cower in yer presence? Even with yer large dowry?”
Philomena ignored her brother’s jibe and focused her attention on me. “I hae read several articles depicting the Indians as total savages with nae remorse and nae regard fur human life. In fact I believe the English Army even removed one tribe, the Pequot, tae another location in order tae stop their barbarity against another group.”
“It’s true each tribe is fiercely protective of their hunting grounds and on occasion there are fights.” I twirled the stem of my wineglass for a moment. “Not unlike the English going to war with France, or France with Spain, it is not always easy to rub along with one’s neighbours. My own wife’s tribe, for example, was the Mohawk, though they made alliances with four other nations for protection and are known collectively as the Iroquois, within the larger group, smaller nations are protected.”
“Yer wife, Captain?” The look of shock on Philomena’s face was worth every jibe I might receive from the more prudish residents of Markinch when they learned of my dead wife. “Never say ye are married tae a savage, it is unconscionable!”
“I was married to a member of the Mohawk tribe. She was not a savage.” A memory of her sitting near the fire, chin resting on her knees. A smile playing on her lips as she listened to her brother, Hania, and I speak of our day’s hunt rose before my eyes. I cleared my throat to erase it. “She was caring, generous and in every way the equal and better of most of the women who call themselves ladies in the ballrooms of London.”
Philomena lowered her eyes to her plate in surrender. I only needed to expose myself to all manners of torment to cease her disapproval of my person. The hole in my chest where Onatah lived before her death ached in loneliness. I wished to be away from this table at once. I needed solace.
The silence lengthened and I feared that in my haste to see Philomena in her place, I had completely ruined the evening. Magnus spoke in a low voice. “Is it common practice fur officers tae marry Indian girls? We dinnae hear of such things in the papers.”
Laughing harshly. “You would not hear of a marriage between an English soldier and a native anywhere in the English realms, Magnus. The practice is common enough even among the French. Women are a rare commodity. I would have stayed with my wife for the rest of my days.” I swallowed before continuing. “Most men leave women and ret
urn to England, creating dishonour for them.”
“It appears ye are nae much better, Captain.” Philomena stared across the table, with hard green eyes. “I have nae heard of a native woman living with ye in the cottage, ye hae left her behind with a bevy of bastards in tow. I should think.”
I stood towering over the table. I felt Beathan tense beside me, however he did not rise. I spoke the next words slowly, enunciating each one. “My wife is dead.” The harshness of the words tore through the gilt dining room. “She was pregnant with our first child. They are both gone now. Please heap more agony onto my conscience if you think you could reach the top of the pile.”
Philomena sat back in her chair, shock registering on her face. She was speechless, a state not often experienced by the young lady if judged by the look in her eye. Beathan whispered. “Perhaps ye should retire tae the drawing room with the tea cart, Phil, and leave us tae the Scotch.”
The footman pulled her chair out from the table and Philomena rose a trifle unsteadily to her feet. She paused for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face. I was sure she might say something. Instead she gave a short curtsey and swept from the room, shoulders square, chin up.
I closed my eyes, and turned to Beathan and Magnus who watched Philomena’s progress from the dining room with surprise. “I apologise to you both, especially to you, Magnus.” My expression hopefully conveyed my embarrassment. “You must think you invited a brute to come and dine with you this evening.” I retook my seat and allowed the server to pour a Scotch.
“On the contrary, Captain. I think I hae invited a real man tae sit at the table,” Magnus dismissed the serving staff with a wave. “My daughter is far too accustomed tae having her own way and she easily manipulates the dandies who come calling on her. I do believe she might be in shock.” He raised his glass in salute and drank.
I raised my own and drank deeply, neither Beathan nor Magnus appeared exceptionally worried over my unsociable behaviour. All was forgotten of the ugly scene and the rest of the evening passed in amicable conversation, my thoughts drifting to the woman who challenged me so fiercely only once or twice.
Scotch Rising Page 6