But there was this small bit of curiosity that kept her seated: Why did her uncle feel such responsible for this particular clan, when, to the best of Elizabeth’s knowledge, they were perfect strangers? Simply because James was the one ordered to execute the elders didn’t make her Uncle Edward responsible for their reintegration. No doubt, it was a nice gesture, but her mother’s brother simply didn’t have the same sense of charity as his deceased sister, and, in fact, he really liked to make the point that it was her mother’s audacious personality that put her in the “wrong place at the right time”—in front of a speeding carriage, with a sign in her hand.
“How much longer?” Elizabeth relented, ending her long bout of dissenting silence.
The elder woman peered out of the carriage. It was snowing harder, and the carriage was slowing down. At this pace, they would arrive at Dunmore on the Twelfth Night, not the First.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Grace, as the voices outside grew louder and louder.
Finally, the carriage came to a complete halt, and they heard their driver scuttle down, muttering a curse—shocking words no lady ought to overhear, but Elizabeth snickered and Mrs. Grace shook her head. After a long moment, the driver—one Mr. Hadley, who by the by, appeared to be smuggling spirits, judging by the suspicious sounds coming from their luggage rack—appeared at their door, pulling it open and giving Elizabeth only the briefest of glances before addressing her companion. “The bridge north of Calvine lies buried,” he said, brows pinched. “Won’t be passing through t’night, mayhap not even tomorrow.”
“Oh, good grief,” said Mrs. Grace. “What would you have us do, Mr. Hadley?”
“Welp,” said the driver. “There’s an Inn here in Calvine.”
“Insufferable,” complained Elizabeth, though not because the thought of stopping aggrieved her, but really, she didn’t appreciate that Mr. Hadley’s question wasn’t addressed to her, considering that it was her interest being discussed. She was not a child—unlike her betrothed.
For her outburst, the driver cast her a disgruntled glance and Mrs. Grace reached out to pat Elizabeth’s hand, as though to say, “Quiet, dear.”
“Can you please take us there?” Mrs. Grace inquired.
“Sorry mum,” said the driver. “You’ll see when you get down. The road’s full of travelers, all stuck on account of the weather. I’m guessing most’ll be waking the new year in their coaches.”
“Stuck?” said Elizabeth. “What do you mean stuck?”
“Stuck,” repeated the man, with a sniff, then, again, he turned his face to her and spoke to Mrs. Grace, as though he couldn’t bear the thought of addressing her.
“Really!” she exclaimed. Although she knew him not at all, she wondered if he might be lying, or… scheming. He had some look about him she simply didn’t trust.
“Ask for Balthazar,” said Hadley. “He ain’t got much room, but I’ll warrant if there’s a bed to be let, he’ll give it to ye if you tell him I sent ye.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Mrs. Grace, kindly, and the man departed.
“I don’t like that he assumes to ignore me,” complained Elizabeth, her brow furrowed.
“My dear, don’t be so ready to take offense.” Mrs. Grace patted her arm yet again. “You’re quite direct, at times, and tis off-putting to some. Alas, not to worry,” She said. “I will see to it that we are settled. And, of course, Elizabeth knew that to be true. Mrs. Grace might not be overly fierce, but she was infinitely patient and persevering—two traits Elizabeth sadly did not share. Twenty minutes later, they were both standing with valises before a grizzled, snaggle-toothed old man who was far too preoccupied with combing his beard to note the two of them standing before his counter. But, of course, Mrs. Grace was hardly inclined to disturb him, so they waited “patiently,” while he gently worked at a Lilliputian tangle, and Elizabeth stood melting—quite literally. She had snow in her shoes, snow in her hood, and even more snow in her hair, all of it thawing and making her damp. She could feel those wild little curls losing their shape and tickling her nape. Nevertheless, she held her tongue, inspecting the interior of the inn.
The pale stone walls above the waist-high wainscoting were pitted with age. In observation of the holiday, there was a Christmas Crown hanging from a high ceiling—a wreath of sorts, woven with small branches of ash to ward away bad spirits. Additionally, there were boughs of holly strewn across the hearth and over every doorway, tied in place by striking red ribbons.
But the fire in the hearth was the most curious thing of all. It changed colors, from green to gold to violet—a striking display that the boffin in her longed to explore. Naturally, it had the effect of drawing every drunkard’s eye in the tavern, sedating them as would a hefty dose of laudanum—very clever, she thought. The mistress of this inn was brilliant—unlike this oaf standing behind the counter. Alas, the longer they stood, the more attention they garnered.
Most disconcertingly, there were a number of male occupants in the crowded tavern, some eyeing Elizabeth with undisguised disapproval—perhaps because they were Scots?
A few eyed her with arched brows and veiled smiles. Regardless of how they felt about it, no doubt two proper English women traveling alone on a holiday was no common sight.
Beneath her feet lay a carpet of sticky straw, a rather primitive application that was no doubt cheaper than carpet, considering the way the guests sloshed ale up over their heaping cups—all the while they drunkenly repeated the same two verses of the Boar’s Head Carol.
The boar’s head in hand bring I,
Bedecked with bays and rosemary.
I pray you, my masters, be merry…
The boar’s head, as I understand,
Is the rarest dish in all this land,
Which thus bedecked with a gay garland.
“Pardon, madam,” said Mrs. Grace as a sweet-looking woman passed them by with a tray full of foamy ale. “Can you please direct us to one Mr. Balthazar.”
“John!” screamed the woman, surprising them both with the tenor of her voice. The tray in her hand threatened to overturn its burden as she cast a glance at the man behind the counter who, inconceivably, was still combing his beard.
“No, we are looking for Balthazar,” said Elizabeth. “We were told—”
“John Joseph Pitagowan!” screamed the woman again, and Elizabeth gave Mrs. Grace an alarmed glance, to which her chaperone responded with an admonishing nod, as though to say, “I told you so. Please leave it to me!”
“What?” said the man, to which the woman slid her chin forward—like a hen—and said, “Can’t ye see we’ve guests tae tend? Leave off with the whiskers already, else ye’ll find yourself on the morrow wi’ your chin bald as your head!”
The man flushed brightly. “We’re full to the rafters,” he explained.
“Oh, but, sir, our driver,” interjected Mrs. Grace very sweetly. “He said to tell one Mr. Balthazar that Mr. Hadley sent us.”
“Hadley?” said the goat-chinned man, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Why didn’t ye say so! Did he say if he brought—”
“I really don’t know,” said Mrs. Grace. “But I do suspect the answer to your question might be yes, because he does, indeed, have a package for someone ensconced with our luggage.” And this they knew, because Mr. Hadley had steadfastly refused to carry a second trunk for Elizabeth. And therefore, she’d been forced to pack away her entire life in one small suitcase and a tiny valise. Her uncle had promised to send the rest.
Exasperated, the tavern woman threw up a hand and hurried away, perhaps nettled by the name Mrs. Grace provided, or else she was certain now that they would be well cared for. Clearly, Mr. Balthazar or Mr. Pitagowan—whatever his name might be—was infinitely pleased to hear from their driver. “Good ole Hadley,” he said, tugging at his beard. And then he gave a nod toward the woman who’d disappeared. “That’s me wife,” he explained. “She’s no’ much for good ole Hadley, but he’s a good cha
p.” And then he launched immediately into what sounded as though it might still prove to be a dismissal. “Thing is, we’ve only got one bed left.” He eyed both of them circumspectly. “Belongs to my daughter, though, as it happens, she’s away for the evening, so I believe I can let it. She likes to get away now and again. But,” he said, inclining his head. “There’s still only one bed.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Grace. “Have you nothing else at all?”
He shrugged. “A cot and a blanket in the stable,” he said. “But, don’t worry, it’s all perfectly partitioned.”
Mrs. Grace waved a hand at him. “That’ good enough for me,” she said. “You may assign Lady Elizabeth your daughter’s room, and I thank you kindly.”
“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth, but Mrs. Grace held up a hand in that way she had when matters were already settled. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “You take the room, dear.”
“But—”
“No buts,” said Mrs. Grace. “I’ll be perfectly fine. And anyway, I can hardly tolerate my own snoring. If we share, you’ll be baggy eyed and fit for no one’s company, much less prepared to meet your darling groom.”
“I would be happier to share,” argued Elizabeth.
“No,” said Mrs. Grace. “I won’t allow it. How much?” she inquired of the innkeeper.
“Half a crown for the both o’ ye. Supper’ll be extra.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Grace, and with that, she removed the proper remuneration from her reticule and asked, “Shall I pay you directly?”
“Oh, no,” said the man. “Gi’ all remittance to Mrs. Pitagowan, else she’ll put my arse in the snow with Hadley.” His blush returned, as he pointed toward the woman who’d already yelled at him once. “Bess,” he said. “She’s o’er there.”
Mrs. Grace pointed as well, and he nodded, then her faithful companion grasped Elizabeth by the arm and squeezed gently, and said, “Sleep well, dear.” And suddenly she was away, leaving Elizabeth to deal with the innkeeper.
“So ye’re going tae meet yer groom?” he said, once again tugging at his beard.
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Inverness?”
“Yes, sir.” The man was entirely too forward; still Elizabeth held her tongue, looking wistfully over her shoulder at Mrs. Grace, who was now conversing quite amenably with “Bess” “o’er there.” It never failed to impress her that Mrs. Grace could so easily get along with anyone—unlike Elizabeth, who hadn’t a good conversational bone in her body. But it really mustn’t be entirely unexpected, when she’d been left to fend for herself for most of her life.
And anyway it was never on her own behalf that she became nettled; nothing ever got her dander up more than the disaffection of others.
Elizabeth waited whilst the man searched the myriad of keys on his belt, and then he smiled congenially and led the way into a scullery, where he hollered to a young boy to light the fire in Carrie’s room, and to change the bed sheets. Afterward, he led Elizabeth into another smaller room, then stopped before an old, iron-banded door.
“So, then, who’s the lucky groom?” he asked as he slid a big black key into the lock. “Is it Douglass?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Mackintosh?”
“No sir. I’ll be pledging my…”
“Ach, now, dinna tell me, it must be MacKinnon!” He shook his head sadly, and said, “Poor bastard.” He jiggled the knob, then opened the door to let her in.
The room itself was quite cozy, with a small brick fireplace and an adjoining door at the far side of the room. “Is that perhaps another guest room?” she asked, hopefully.
“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “Tis my daughter’s closet.”
“May I use it to store my valise?” She lifted the heavy bag in her hand, only belatedly realizing that he had never once bothered to offer to carry it—not that this itself should bother her overmuch. Elizabeth had long been of the mind that a woman could carry her own bag. It was rather his unhelpful demeanor.
“Nay,” he said again. “Tis locked. We’ve had some guests snooping of late, and my daughter’s no’ too keen on it. Also,” he said with a lift of his brow. “No baths. Ain’t no one about to draw you any water. And if you want tae sup, ye’ll be more’n welcome in the hall. Mrs. Pitagowan makes a fine stew, and I believe she’s got some frumenty as well.”
“Frumenty?”
“Pudding,” he said, “wheat boiled in milk, with cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger, made special for the holiday, all very expensive!”
“Thank you,” said Elizabeth, and then he was gone.
Still, she wasn’t alone. She waited patiently for the young man who’d rushed in after them to finish lighting the hearth fire, and then change the bedsheets. After he left as well, Elizabeth closed the door. As weary as she was, she set down her valise in the middle of the room and went to test the bed, considering how hungry she might be—perhaps not enough to brave the randy lot in the tavern. And anyway, she doubted she would see Mrs. Grace again this evening. Her companion was not the sort to dally before bedtime; no doubt she was already making herself comfortable out in the stables—or as comfortable as she was able.
Suddenly, she leapt up from the bed, curious to explore Carrie’s closet. She jiggled the knob, and, found, much to her delight, and contrary to Mr. Pitagowan’s claims, the door was unlocked. Only one look inside and she gasped over the grizzly display—it was a shrine full of wartime accoutrements: shields, swords, coats, cuffs, spurs, pistols, hats—much of which she suspected was still encrusted with blood. Certainly, the scent of the room was ghastly. And although it wasn’t a small room by most standards, there was little doubt Mrs. Grace would prefer the stables. With a hand to her breast, she closed the door again and, resolved to make it a night—vittles could wait until the morrow, when everyone else was sleeping off hangovers.
Chapter Two
Callum MacKinnon was close enough to home now that he could taste the tang of pine in the air. Unfortunately, the carriageway was impassible—vehicles stalled along the roadway, some parked on the embankments, fresh snow piled high against their rutted wheels.
He frowned at the sight, considering that he might be able to slide through the blockade by abandoning the roadway, but, even eight months later, the area was still crawling with Sassenachs soldiers.
Bloody hell.
At this point, neither he nor his horse were particularly enjoying the bite of the wind, and the snow had already dampened his cloak. The last thing he wished to do was to arrive home looking like the walking dead, and scare his sister into pissing her bed.
And anyway, he was still far enough that, even if he managed to get through the crush, his aching bones might not make it through the night. His wounds were still raw—those on his body, and the one in his heart. Not only was his clan forever divided—some had fought for the Stuart King—he was returning home a traitor, pardoned only so long as he forfeited title and lands.
Decision made, he grunted his annoyance, although, in truth, he couldn’t blame it on the weather. He was perpetually disgruntled these days, mourning that bright-hearted self he’d lost on a blood-soaked field at Culloden.
Ach, now, why shouldn’t he be sour as sorrel?
He had an Englishman to thank for saving his miserable life, and considering that it was that same bloody Englishman who’d put a ball between his father’s eyes, none of it sat well in his gut.
Bloody rotten bastards.
Even despite the fact that they’d already surrendered, General Hawley had ordered both Callum and his father executed, then, to make sure it was done, he stood by as one Major James Wolfe had fired the first ball. That his man wasn’t too thrilled to end a life of a prisoner off the battlefield wasn’t much of a comfort to Callum’s father. Young as he was, the major was an excellent marksman, although once Hawley departed, Wolfe put the next two volleys into Callum—one through his shoulder, the other his thigh—then ordered Callum t
o run. And run, he had, by God. Only now he sometimes wished he too had taken a ball to the head rather than be forced to relive the memory of his father’s twitching corpse and piddled plaid.
Even now, the heinous memory brought an unmanly sting to Callum’s tired blue eyes, and he vowed to carry the ignoble image to his grave. So far as his brothers were all concerned, all they ever needed to know was that Angus MacKinnon died like a man—unlike his eldest son, who’d scurried away from the specter of death like a rat from a torch.
As for Wolfe… the sorry bastard…
If he’d meant for Callum to survive, a shoulder wound would have sufficed. How he’d made it so far as he had without succumbing to fever, Callum might never know. The memory of his final days on the run only resurfaced with a blur. Ever since, he’d spent months convalescing, two of those he couldn’t even recall.
In the meantime, he had three young brothers and a wee sister waiting at home and, considering that he had very likely been pronounced a traitor to the Crown, he hadn’t dared to apprise anyone he was still alive. Unfortunately, it was long past time to do so.
Consequently, and once again because of Major Wolfe, he was here on the Yuletide, stopping short of his destination, dawdling like a coward on the eve of a new year.
God’s teeth, it was enough to sour any man’s mood, and not even the promise of Mrs. Pitagowan’s cranachan managed to lift his spirits.
With some effort, he slid down from his horse—a borrowed mare he’d have to return as soon as he was able. Wincing over the pain in his leg, ignoring the one in his heart, he handed the reins to a young lad, scarcely older than his brother Lachlan. He recognized the youth as one of Pitagowan’s nephews, a bright haired lad with more freckles than the night had stars.
“Good tae see ye, lai—sir,” said the youth, dressed as a proper Sassenach. And yet, despite that they’d gone and outlawed the clans, and forbade them to carry weapons, no one could mistake the boy’s brogue. He was Scots through and through, and Callum knew his father well. The poor soul had fought beside him at Culloden, and died, so he’d been told. His cousin Carrie had since taken to scouring the battlefields for proof of life… or death.
A Very Highland Holiday Page 23