by Laura Frantz
“What more needs to be done?” Lark asked Cook as she pushed away from the table.
“Flower arranging. A great many blooms arrived from Glasgow’s hothouses in the forenoon. Take Annie if ye need help, though I can hardly spare any kitchen maids.”
“No need. Where are the vases?”
“In the storeroom. The best silver will do. None o’ that tawdry pewter or glass.”
Lark nodded. The quantity of blooms dictated the needed vases. Best take a look in the Great Hall first. She trod lightly, used to tiptoeing around Isla. But now, with the mistress on the way to Edinburgh, she grew bold. She even dared set foot in the stairwell where the massive cedar staircase climbed to elegant heights.
Odd how a person’s presence or absence changed the mood of a place. When Isla and her retinue left for the city, the castle was like a flower in bloom. The remaining servants talked and laughed more freely, doors were left open, the mood turned festive.
Lark listened to the staccato tap of her own footfall across the marble foyer of the Great Hall, past oil portraits and Flemish tapestries on paneled oak walls that hadn’t altered in the last century, to the waiting blooms.
The chill of the two-storied hall kept the flowers fresh, and there were armfuls of them in such varied hues she nearly gasped. Bending low, she breathed in their honeyed scent, the roses foremost—armfuls of scarlet roses the very color of British red-coated soldiers. Isla’s favorite flower, Lark remembered with a pang.
“I recall yer preference being lavender.”
She turned, finding Magnus behind her, arms crossed. And looking far more at ease than she expected. “Lavender, aye. Practical as well as bonny. If only roses grew as readily. Cook asked for help arranging these . . .” She was babbling, caught in the maelstrom of the moment.
“Ye heard about Isla.”
“I saw her leave myself. I’m terribly sorry.”
“The ball is to go on regardless.”
She smiled, but there was sadness in it. “Glad I am of that.”
“’Tis her loss, not ours.”
She pondered this. His tone held no bitterness, just regret. By shunning the island and its people when she might embrace them, Isla did lose. And her absence, while igniting gossip, would be mourned by no one Lark knew.
“Granny and I are at work on another, better remedy,” she said, but there was more hope than truth in it. “When the mistress returns . . .”
“If she returns.”
The flowers were forgotten. Lark simply stared at him, detecting a shattering shift in their circumstances.
“She might be done with Kerrera for good. Edinburgh has her heart.”
“Auld Reekie?” Her calm fled. How could a stinking, smoke-filled city compare? Even so, one’s heart should cling to people, not places. “But this is her home. Ye are her husband . . .”
He was looking at her like he’d done since boyhood—with obstinacy and admiration—yet reminding her of her place. “Have a care, Lark.”
“There’s the rub, Magnus. I do care. And ’tis she who should be standing here arranging flowers for an occasion that means so much to ye.”
“Ye canna blame her entirely. ’Twas rash what I did, marrying her with little thought as to how island life would suit her. Mayhap I should leave Kerrera for good and go to the city too.”
To Edinburgh? For keeps? In her angst, she clutched a stem too tightly, a thorn drawing blood. A stray drop stained her apron, crimson on creamy linen.
“Here, Lark.” He took the rose, his calm almost harder to bear than his temper, as if he’d thought it all out and the tenants’ ball would be his last. “Ye’ve ne’er been to Edinburgh. The city has its charms.”
He looked about the long, polished hall empty of all but banquet tables at the outer edges. The butler and footmen came in, bearing silver and place cards for the table settings of the more prominent islanders who’d feast on the raised dais at the hall’s far end.
Without another word she fled, trying to master her emotions. Once in the storeroom she selected the best vases, chin still a-tremble, the excitement of the fete tarnished and seeming frivolous in light of Isla’s leaving.
The castle needed a child. A family. But would a child change Isla? She did not seem meant to be a mother either in temperament or in body. There was no cure for being barren and selfish to the bone save Christ.
5
My thoughts and I were of another world.
Ben Jonson
“Best don a smile with yer fine frock,” Granny told her.
Together they trudged up the cliffside path to the castle in the long mid-May twilight. Fists full of pressed brocade, Lark tried to iron out her tangled thoughts. She’d not spoil Granny’s glee by sharing the burden Magnus’s words had wrought. His imminent departure for Edinburgh—mayhap for good—would dampen the festive night.
“Look at that, will ye?” Granny crowed as if she’d never seen the castle lit up so in all her fourscore years.
Lark looked. Softened. Surely there was no grander sight than Kerrera with its doors open wide in welcome, light illuminating every crevice and corner.
They were not alone in making their way to the ball. Behind and before them trod islanders in their Sabbath best. Over brae and hillock they came till a long line snaked at the castle’s main entrance. For once the air was windless, yet it still carried and married a great many aromas—smoke and candle wax and roses, roasted meat and baked bread.
Overhead rose a full moon, perfect for romantic trysts in the formal garden, the fountain at its heart. The head gardener had torn and trimmed and readied every awakening bed, even scrubbing the stubborn moss off stone benches and statuaries. ’Twas the one night the tenants were allowed in.
Mayhap she and the captain could take a turn there. Mayhap she could convince him to use the Merry Lass for honest gain and give up smuggling for good.
“’Tis time to leave yer spinsterhood behind, aye?” Granny’s whisper was warm on her ear as Rory came into view. “Set yer sights on a more noble lad.”
Passing beneath the castle’s lintel he was a striking sight, shed of his sailing garb and battered hat. In a proper weskit and coat and breeches fit for the drawing room, he looked more gentleman than ship’s captain.
“His whiskers need trimming,” Granny said in the next breath. “He has the look of a pirate, he does.”
“That he is. No sense pretending otherwise.” Lark waved a hand at Catriona and her wee family just ahead of them. “Glad I am the island’s small and the moon full to guide everyone home.”
“’Twill be no home-going till dawn.”
“Oh? Shall ye stay all night, Granny?”
“Dancing and feasting and such, aye, for as long as my auld eyes stay open. With the mistress away, the frolic might go longer.”
They hastened into the castle’s stony foyer and through the door to the Great Hall, now crowded with a great many islanders of all stations and occupations. Overhead hung two Venetian lanterns, the massive brass chandeliers casting a glow like fairy dust over the assemblage.
Cook stood by a long table where dishes were being laid out by footmen, her expression watchful. Lark’s gaze rose to the minstrel’s gallery where musicians were tuning their fiddles before her focus shifted to the laird. At once he took her breath away—for all the wrong reasons.
Entering by the far hall door that led to the cedar staircase and his private chambers, he nearly brought the Great Hall’s hubbub to a halt.
Oh Magnus, have a care.
Kilted, his plaid a magnificent loch blue and heather purple, he looked like a bonny prince. Lark knew the sentiment behind it. ’Twas in honor of his father, the previous laird, killed in the Jacobite Rising of ’45. Astonishment melded to admiration, both her own and others’. Lark could feel it. See it in myriad faces. She was torn between awe and fear.
The British king had outlawed all forms of such dress after Culloden, the penalties severe. Magnus wore
it in protest—that she understood. But he’d only done so on the anniversary of his father’s death. Till now.
Her gaze cut across the crowd to the entrances. What if some authority should walk in? Fear shuddered through her. Six months’ imprisonment for the first offense. Seven years’ transportation for the second. Thus far he’d escaped punishment. Though Magnus was beloved by most of Kerrera’s residents, might some bear him a mindless grudge and rejoice to see him brought low?
The feasting began, but Lark had little appetite. She sipped cider and kept to the shadows, glancing about furtively in case one of the king’s men appeared.
In time Catriona sought her out, her gown hardly disguising her girth. “How bonny ye look in yer blue brocade, cousin. But why so downcast?”
“’Tis a right terrible risk to be kilted on such a night as this.”
“Hoot! The king’s Dress Act can go to Hades! Why quibble about a piece o’ cloth? Besides, the laird has posted lookouts. He’s no fool. Did ye not see auld Archie and young Reginald? Both kilted and proud!”
Still, Lark sent up a silent prayer. Lord, please. He’s a good man who bears a heavy burden. He means no trouble with his dress. His every thought is keeping Kerrera well and safe. Let no one pass this way with harm in mind.
“Will ye do me the honor, Mistress MacDougall?” The captain stood before her with a little bow.
Charmed, she set aside her qualms as he led her onto the marble floor amid a melee of swirling, sweating dancers. One Scots reel gave way to another till the laird’s favorite, the boisterous “Strip the Willow,” was struck.
The opening note was drawn out expectantly. ’Twas the tune the laird usually danced with Isla. Reserved for her alone as the castle’s mistress. But Isla was not here. Would he bow out? Let someone else lead?
Lark stood by the oriole window, wishing Isla back, knowing this was an awkward moment. Those who didn’t know Isla had left for Edinburgh were looking about, realizing something was amiss.
And Magnus?
Before she’d caught her breath from the reel she’d stepped with Rory, the laird stood before her. In Gaelic, he asked her to dance. She schooled her shock, aware of a great many eyes upon them. At last she curtsied, heartened to see a flash of gratitude warm his stoic face.
She kept her eyes down, stepping the reel as smartly as she could. Magnus was a braw dancer. Moreover, he enjoyed dancing. She could feel that as well. Had she not learned to dance in this marbled hall as a girl of eight? Was he thinking it too? Like a lady, a true MacDougall, as if Gylen Castle lay not in ruins. Once upon a time Lark had spun and stepped and crushed toes till she learned these dances right and proper. Oh, to return to innocent days of old before barren brides and shipwrecked dreams, gnawing hunger and sleepless nights.
The music had them circling and gliding and spinning, testing their skill and surefootedness. Beneath it all pulsed a sweetness, an excitement that she danced with the handsomest man on Kerrera, mayhap in all the islands. Once she looked up at him, and his eyes were every bit as warm and lively as the music when they met hers. Her heart turned over. Oh, what a joy it was to be wanted. Chosen. If only for a dance. The delight of it cascaded over her, from her beribboned head to her soles. She was out of breath, all a-tingle.
Their hands met, parted, as did their steps. She dared another glance at him. This was their moment, their dance, though she found herself wishing for the slower strathspey reel instead if only to draw the fleeting moment out a wee bit longer.
After this she’d escape to the garden for air, to collect herself, to stay out of the eye of any who thought she might think herself above her humble station.
Rory swallowed his surprise and the last of his ale as Lark partnered with the laird. Magnus was in fine form tonight, kilted and taking his pick of the beautiful lasses. Rory’s gaze swept the crush of merrymakers, knowing just who among them were the tale bearers, the foremost gossips. Isla’s absence was questionable enough. Did Magnus have to choose Lark in her wake? Why not partner with Granny or some old crone above any tongue wagging?
But he could not blame the laird. Lark was the bonniest. She was like her name—openhearted and brimming with life and spirit. And beloved.
The music ended on a triumphant note, with Lark curtseying prettily to the laird. Rory tried to put down the queer twisting inside him. It rose unbidden, tainting his enjoyment of the moment. He half wished for a ruckus to be raised—that the rashly kilted laird would be found out. Or that Isla would reappear, her own jealousy erupting, the ball coming to an early end.
He’d seen Isla explode in most unladylike fashion over a lamed horse and muddied skirt. It was said she snapped at the servants if they were seconds late with a cup of tea. Rhona was also regarded with suspicion. Servants were loyal and close-lipped about those they liked but not those ill-favored.
Another dance commenced so he picked Jillian, cleaned up and in a passable frock. The laird was not dancing now but mingling and talking and threading his way through the swelling throng, goblet in hand.
He seemed uncommonly merry with his wife away, deepening Rory’s uneasy twist. He and Magnus had never been at odds. What was there to quibble about now? Magnus had even agreed to repair the Merry Lass.
Still . . .
He looked about for Lark. Had she left? Earlier he’d seen her in a quieter corner, talking and laughing with fellow islanders.
“She’s in the garden,” Jillian said slyly above the noise.
His smile of thanks was wry. Leave it to Jillian to read him. He elbowed his way to a far door, hoping the garden was easily found. Nay. A labyrinth of candlelit corridors lay before him, but soon an attentive footman steered him right.
He stepped into moonlit darkness. Beyond the garden wall stretched silvery sea, far more his home than a haughty castle. He stood near a trellis getting his bearings. The trickle of a fountain. Doves cooing. The scent of emerging flowers. These sated his senses and swept away the customary brine and reek of fish he was so used to.
Lark sat on a low stone bench beyond the fountain, hands in her lap. He took a seat beside her, a bit off-kilter without his hat. When nervous, he liked to set it a-twirl in his hands. He reached instead for a near climbing rose, the buds yet unopened.
“Yer missing the sea,” she said quietly.
Would she read him like Jillian? “Betimes I want to get beyond these islands. See the colonies.”
“America?”
“Aye. There’s no castles there. No crofts. Imagine it. Mostly log dwellings. Few fine houses.”
“Indians.”
He nodded. “’Twould be a sight, aye? Well worth a two-month crossing.”
“If ye survived it.” The pragmatic Lark weighed in. He far preferred the Lark of fancy. “Why wander?” she questioned. “Many live and die here on Kerrera, never even setting foot on the mainland.”
“And ye? What’s yer pleasure?”
She smiled. “The sea, ’tis so fickle. If we did get there . . .” She hesitated.
He liked that she said we. “Yer remembering yer da,” he said, bowing his head slightly in respect.
“Aye, always.” She took the rose from him, bringing it to her nose. “What would we do there? In America, I mean.”
“Get a piece of ground to call our own.” His our implied an intimacy he was unsure of. “Men make their own way in America, by their wits. No lairds or Philistines to speak of.”
“It sounds strange. Hard.”
“No harder than here. Mayhap freer.”
“Ye can be freer here if ye abandon yer smuggling.”
“Hoot! My smuggling keeps the island afloat.” He gave a shake of his head. “I’ve no wish to talk such foolishness. At least till I hie to America.”
“Are there cities there like Auld Reekie?”
“None the likes of Edinburgh though a few have grand names. Philadelphia. New York. Boston. There’s a colony called Carolina to the north, a Scots stronghold near the sea.”
She looked at him, eyes alive with interest. Or was it dread?
“Mighty rivers and woods as far as the eye can behold. Cape Fear is where I’d settle.”
“Cape Fear?” She drew back a bit. “Sounds frightful.”
He chuckled. “I dinna ken why it’s called that.”
“Ye’d best be finding out.”
“And if I do?”
She looked away. “I’ll not leave Granny.”
“Mayhap she’d want ye to go.”
“I’m all she has left.”
“Let the laird look after her.”
“That’s cold, Captain.” She used her sternest tone.
“Granny’s served his family well all these years. So have ye. But yer granny’s come to her earthly end nearly.”
She abandoned the sore subject. “How d’ye ken so much about America?”
“I leave Kerrera. And learn.”
She sighed. ’Twas hard for her to see beyond this rocky island, confined to croft and castle, he knew. Even so, she did not share his wanderlust. That he knew too. There was a mystifying contentment about Lark that defied hunger and uncertainty and want. Kerrera was her home and had ever been. Whatever it handed her was her accepted lot, even the loss of her kin’s mighty title and lands.
He heaved a sigh. “Ye and I are spring lambs no longer.”
“Five and twenty. Some call me a stayed lass, a spinster. Yet I look into the glass and expect to see a wee lass.”
“The Buik says our days are but a breath,” he said in a rare nod to Scripture. “A vapor.”
“Too short to spend sailing to fearsome parts.” At that, she stood. The very moment he’d been about to take her hand. “Best be inside. We dinna want to stir gossip.”
No more than ye did with the laird, he did not say.
6
In his company, I am grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections.