by Susan King
“Back to the days of cattle thieves and rogues?” MacGregor drawled.
“I was thinking of something more idyllic.”
“Ah, an idealist,” he said softly. His eyes, in sunlight, were mossy green.
“At times. Are you, Mr. MacGregor?”
“Not any longer,” he answered.
“By idyllic, I believe the lady means the Highlands as described in Sir Walter Scott’s grand poetry,’” Hugh said.
“I do mean that. Do you know his work, either of you?” She smiled at both.
“I have read his work,” MacIan said. “Some of his descriptions remind me of our own bonny glen.” He drew a breath and began to recite in a sonorous voice.
The wanderer’s eye could barely vie
The summer heaven’s delicious blue;
So wondrous wild, the whole might seem
The scenery of a fairy dream.
“Oh, that is perfect!” Fiona applauded. “I am fascinated by fairy lore.” She stopped then, wary of giving away just how keen an interest she had.
“Kinloch knows much about local legends,” MacIan said. “Quite the expert.”
“I know no more than anyone else,” MacGregor said curtly.
“Do not listen to the fellow, he knows a good bit,” the reverend said. “Miss MacCarran, I am inspired to read Sir Walter’s magnificent epic, ‘Lady of the Lake,’ again, since it is about Loch Katrine. We could discuss it, you and I.” He swept an arm wide. “‘On this bold brow, a lordly tower; in that soft vale, a lady’s bower—’”
“No need to recite another blasted poem. The students are waiting to greet the new dominie,” Kinloch said irritably.
Fiona glanced up. “Do you dislike Sir Walter’s poetry, sir?”
“I have read some of it. It did not enthrall me. I lacked patience for the length. Though some verses do remind me of Glen Kinloch.” He leaned toward her, tilted his head. “’But hosts may in these wilds abound, such as are better missed than found; to meet with Highland plunderers here—were worse than loss of steed or deer,’” he concluded, “or something to that effect.” He smiled flatly.
“Ah. Very nice, sir.” Fiona loved the deep timbre of his voice, however mocking in the moment—and recognized his implication. “Oh, look, the scholars are waiting.”
As the three of them walked toward the flat of the low hill, Kinloch set a hand to her elbow. Gentle lightning went through her at the contact. Even his polite, casual touch affected her—she had not even felt that way when she had been briefly engaged to Archie MacCarran. Flustered, she lifted held her chin high.
As they passed the tower house, she glanced at its turrets and massive walls and saw in its handsome medieval design a shabbiness she had not noticed from a distance. Stone blocks crumbled in places, corners were coated with rusty ivy, stone trim was cracked, a window was broken, and the roof needed repair.
“The school was once a weaver’s cottage,” Hugh MacIan supplied as they walked down the earthen lane toward the schoolyard. “So it is not large.”
“The place is old,” Kinloch said. “We have kept it up best we can.”
“It will do nicely,” Fiona said. In the morning light, the whitewashed building and greening hills were picturesque, but now she saw that the schoolhouse, too, needed repair, with peeling plaster, old thatch, a sagging door, a chipped stone step. A goat and three sheep wandered through the yard. The folks gathered by the door moved aside when a large ram appeared and settled heavily near the entrance.
“It will do,” she repeated rather too brightly.
“The roof leaks,” MacGregor said.
“We will fetch buckets if it rains,” she said.
“The walls are crumbling. Do not lean against the back wall during a heavy rainstorm, I warn you.”
“I never lean, nor would I allow my students to do so.”
“There may be mice underfoot.”
“I will get a cat,” she said.
“Then I will find one for you,” he answered, and sighed. “I believe you will fend for yourself in Glen Kinloch, despite all.”
“I will.” She smiled. He returned it, suddenly, a heartwarming grin. For a moment she felt as if she saw only him, and he saw only her. Quickly she looked away, blushing. “I must hurry. The students are waiting.”
“Ah, there is Mrs. Beaton,” the reverend said. “I must speak to her about her daughter’s wedding service. Please excuse me.” He smiled at Fiona. “Since the Laird owns the school, he should introduce you.”
“Thank you, Reverend.” She smiled as he left. “Now that I know the way here, tomorrow I will arrive earlier. I did not know they would all be here before me.”
“You would have to rise very early to be here first,” Kinloch said, “since most of your students will be up before dawn to do the milking and chores before they head to school. Come meet them.”
He touched her elbow again, and again she felt that keen inner tug. She sensed the strength and calm in the man, too, though he was a smuggler and a scoundrel. She set her chin high, determined to let nothing—and no man—distract her from her work here, and walked toward the group waiting for her.
Chapter 7
Dougal nodded, satisfied and oddly proud as he watched Fiona MacCarran greet each person in the schoolyard. She repeated their names as he introduced her and spoke to them in deft, good Gaelic, winning over even those suspicious of outsiders and Lowlanders. Everyone seemed more at ease after speaking with her.
“This is Pol MacDonald,” Dougal continued as they made their way through the group, “and my young cousin Jamie MacGregor. And here is another MacGregor—Andrew, Ranald’s son.” He indicated the lads, tall and small, standing together. Knowing Miss MacCarran would recognize Andrew from their first encounter, he prayed she would not let on.
She smiled as if she had never seen Andrew before, while the boy blushed furiously. Jamie, just seven, his thatch of red-gold hair bright as a setting sun, straightened his narrow shoulders and shook his teacher’s hand. And Pol MacDonald, with a trace of new blond whiskers along his jaw, was so nervous that his voice cracked as he spoke to the new teacher.
Dougal was pleased to see how Miss MacCarran took time for each person, pausing to chat with Pol’s father, a farmer with a rough manner and a kind nature; and Ranald’s sturdy wife, Effie; then Fergus’s daughter Muriel, her hair as fiery as her son Jamie’s. Shy Helen MacDonald, Pol’s cousin, welcomed the new dominie quietly, pushing her twelve-year-old daughter, Annabel, forward, who was as timid as her mother, both of them delicate, blonde, and fairy-like in appearance.
Then Pol’s sister Mairi MacDonald and her friend Lilias Beaton came forward smiling. Both girls were among the older students in the class, and Dougal knew that Lilias was engaged to a young man in the next glen. Hugh MacIan had been discussing the upcoming wedding with the girl and her mother.
As they made their rounds through the small crowd clustered in front of the schoolhouse, Miss MacCarran glanced up at Dougal. “So boys and girls are together in this school? Genders are often separated in other glen schools, with classes on alternating days or scheduled for mornings and afternoons.”
“We have so few students just now that Reverend MacIan thought it best to combine them in one class. It is not easy for them to find time for lessons, as they have chores at home. Many are kin, and used to being together.” Seeing Lucy standing nearby with Jamie, Dougal beckoned her to come forward.
“And who is this?” Miss MacCarran smiled down at her.
“My niece, Lucy MacGregor. Lucy, this is your new teacher.”
Lucy looked up at Miss MacCarran very sweetly, brown eyes sparkling, dark hair gleaming after a good brushing. He was pleased, and a bit relieved, to see that she had decided to nicely comply.
“Good morning, Miss MacCarran. Welcome to Glen Kinloch,” Lucy said in English.
“Thank you, Lucy. Your English is very good.”
“Aye, it is. So I do not need to go to sch
ool. I can speak Gaelic and English, and I can read a little. Uncle Dougal taught me.”
“She is a quick study,” Dougal explained, as Fiona MacCarran looked at him in surprise. “Away with you, lass—go inside with the others. A little reading is a fine thing, but you still need schooling.” Lucy scowled at her uncle and then ran toward the schoolhouse.
“I expected more students this morning,” Miss MacCarran said, looking about.
“I suspect some families are waiting to see what the others say. They will want to be sure that the lessons will be worth the time the children are away from their chores. I suppose they also wonder if you will stay. Previous dominies have not remained here for long.”
“I will stay. I gave my word.”
He nodded, silent, impressed by her steadiness. She was stubborn, this Lowland lass, but he was too. And he was still convinced that sending her away was in everyone’s best interest, even if it proved difficult to accomplish.
“All Highlanders should learn to read and write in English and in Gaelic,” she was saying. “I am glad that you have been tutoring your niece, and it is good to know you encourage your tenants to obtain an education.”
“For all my sins, I do,” he answered quietly.
She looked at him as if puzzled and intrigued, and once again Dougal felt an undeniable pull toward her. In spite of common sense—the need to send her away—he was beginning to feel protective of the new teacher. He wanted to know more about her—wanted her to thrive here. Wanted her to stay.
He stepped forward to hold the door open as she entered the schoolroom, and her shoulder brushed his chest. The clean, womanly scent of her was enticing.
“I confess, sir, I am nervous,” she whispered. “Would you come in for a bit?”
Nodding, he followed her inside.
Fiona set her packet of papers on the sturdy battered table that served as the teacher’s desk, complete with a stiff, high stool. Standing at the front of the room, she folded her hands and tried to appear calm. While the students settled on long benches, she waited. She had taught in a few schools before this, but already she could see that this group—mixed ages, mixed genders, and a mix of interest in learning—might prove challenging. But suddenly she felt more distracted by the tall Highlander standing by the door than nervous about the class.
Kinloch leaned a broad shoulder against the doorjamb. Sunlight from the window spilled over his powerful torso and long limbs, haloed his dark hair, brightened the tones of moss, earth, and cranberry in his tartan plaid. He was like sunlight and rock, warm, earthy, and handsome. She drew a breath, and a sense of calm from his solidity as well. He might be a dangerous sort, but there was something reliable and secure about this quiet laird.
She smiled at the class. The students, from small Lucy and Jamie to lanky Andrew and Pol to the older girls, sat on the plain benches looking awkward, expectant, a bit nervous as well.
“Good morning,” she said in Gaelic. They murmured the same. Soon enough she planned to speak most often in English, requiring them to use that language so they could learn it naturally. “And good morning to MacGregor of Kinloch as well.” Again the children, big to small, murmured in unison. Lucy squirmed in her seat and waved to her uncle. He came to the front of the room.
“Good morning. Miss MacCarran is your teacher now,” he said in Gaelic, “and will be in charge here. Remember the rules of the schoolroom. We do not want Miss MacCarran to think we are all savages, eh?” Some of the children giggled.
“Obey your teacher,” he explained, and Fiona recognized the rules so often recited in Highland schools. “Do not run inside, or in the yard. And what else?”
“Neither shout nor stare at others,” Jamie said, raising a hand, “nor quarrel while you are here.”
“And?” Kinloch asked.
“Bow or curtsey when we enter and go quietly to our seats,” Lilias said.
“Aye, thank you. And Miss MacCarran may have some rules of her own.” He inclined his head toward her.
“Thank you, Mr. MacGregor.” Fiona folded her hands. “Here is what I will expect from each of you. Treat others with respect. Wait your turn to speak, and raise your hand if you have something to say. And pay attention to your schoolwork and apply yourself to your books.”
A hand rose at the back of the room. “Miss, we have no books,” Andrew said.
Fiona raised her brows. “None?” Most schools had a few copies of certain texts.
“None in English, Miss, and only a couple in Gaelic,” Andrew answered.
“There are only seven of you.” She turned toward MacGregor and spoke softly. “Mr. MacGregor, I know translated texts for teaching English to Gaels are scarce. But I was told we would have books.”
“Few books have been translated into Gaelic, I am sure you know,” he said, as she nodded. “I purchased several and had them sent from a Glasgow bookseller, but the other teacher took them with her. I apologize for not acquiring books for the school by now. Your arrival was something of a surprise. I am reminded and will purchase some books for the schoolroom as soon as the chance arises.”
“Thank you. The Bible and some religious texts have been translated—do you have those in your home? We could use them, if so.”
“This is a school, not a kirk.”
“True, but they can be useful when grammar books are not available. Scholars need texts in order to read, and if they can read already, to improve their English skills. Perhaps Reverend MacIan has some books in both languages that I can borrow for the class.”
“I have a small library at Kinloch House,” he said quickly. For an instant, she wondered if he was jealous—and dismissed it as he went on. “You are welcome to borrow any texts you like.” He tilted his head. “I recently acquired a copy of a book by the American Thomas Paine, which has been translated into Gaelic. I would be happy to lend it to you.”
“I would find that quite interesting myself, though it is above the level of these students. Though without proper texts to suit, they may as well stay home.”
MacGregor smiled slowly. “Now that is true.”
She leaned closer, speaking in nearly a whisper. “Do not take that as a reason to close the school and dismiss the dominie, sir.”
He raised his brows, looking amused and innocent. “Miss MacCarran, I am wounded,” he murmured. “I am here to help, not plot your demise. The offer to borrow my books stands. Farewell for now, and I wish you luck of the day.” He nodded, lifted a hand to the students, and left.
Fiona turned back to the class, aware that her heart was beating very fast. “Can anyone tell me what supplies we have here?” she asked.
Mairi MacDonald raised her hand. “We have slates and chalk in the cupboard.”
“Thank you, Mairi. Please fetch them and pass them around. Andrew, will you help her?” The two students went to an old cupboard beneath a window, removed a stack of slates and a box of cut chalk sticks, and began handing them about.
“We also have quills and ink, but not very much paper,” Lucy said. Fiona nodded, turning toward her. The girl’s heart-shaped face, curling brown hair and wide dark eyes would make her a beauty one day, Fiona thought.
“Thank you, Lucy. Now who speaks some English, and who can read a little in English or in Gaelic?”
Two or three hands went up. Fiona soon learned that while some could barely read, most could write their names and a few words. Lucy, the youngest, had the best grasp of both languages. “And I can write in English, too,” the little girl said.
“Miss MacCarran,” Andrew said, “if we can all sign our names, and the pastor reads the Bible to us at Sunday kirk sessions, why do we have to learn more?”
“Because you cannot always be a smuggler, Andrew MacGregor,” Lucy said.
“Lucy,” Fiona said sternly. “Please do not speak out of turn. Raise your hand before speaking in class, and be considerate of others in what you say.”
“But Andrew is my cousin!”
&nb
sp; “Here at school he is your fellow scholar,” Fiona pointed out.
Lucy scowled. “When my mother was the dominie, we did not have to ask permission. Well, I did not,” she added.
“I am the dominie now,” Fiona said gently, aware the girl had lost her mother.
Lilias raised her hand. “My father says Highlanders will need scholarly skills to do well in the future. It is true that the lads cannot be free traders, for the laws will soon not permit—ow!” This, as Pol MacDonald elbowed her into silence.
“Class,” Fiona warned, and then asked the students to write their names on their slates. While she listened to the scrape of chalk on slate, she went to the window beside the door and peered through the glass. The pane was old, thick and hazy, but she could see the yard and beyond.
Near the stone tower of Kinloch House, the laird stood talking with Ranald and Hamish MacGregor. They were soon joined by Fergus as well. For a moment, she saw Dougal MacGregor glance toward the school, while Fergus gestured insistently. As if in answer, Kinloch folded his arms and shook his head.
“MacGregor of Kinloch,” she whispered to herself, “do not think to move me out of here. I mean to stay.”
“Have you had news from the Glasgow solicitor?” Ranald asked Dougal. Various tasks usually occupied his uncles in the mornings, so as they gathered around him now, Dougal knew they had something on their minds.
“Glasgow? No more than we have heard already,” he answered. “If we cannot produce the funds to buy back ten thousand acres of the old Drumcairn estate, the plot of land my father sold off, then the government can sell the deed. My father made that arrangement to save the glen. Now the payment has come due.”
“We must sell all the kegs we have and get the best price,” Hamish said.
“All of them, aye,” Ranald said.
“Not all,” Dougal said.
“The fairies will understand,” Ranald said.
