The Highlander’s Healer (Blood of Duncliffe Series)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “I can go and check,” Prudence volunteered, glad to find a way to get out of an environment she found uncomfortable. Here in the parlor, with Marguerite sewing fine French embroidery, she felt her lack of breeding so keenly.

  “Thank you, Prudence,” Marguerite breathed, relieved. “At least then, when Douglas comes back, we can say we are stocked up, ready for any eventuality.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Prudence stood and, shaking out the creases in the skirt of her borrowed gown – a thing of soft brown linen that hung in becoming, shined folds – she headed out into the hallway.

  Downstairs, in the corridors from the hallway to the kitchen, was a different world. Prudence, walking briskly down the servant's access to the kitchen – a thing of rough, unadorned-by-plaster stone, cold and drafty, felt suddenly better.

  This is my world. Not up there with the tapestries and threads and teatimes.

  She felt herself breathe more easily, lengthening her stride. She felt real in this world, in a way she didn't upstairs. It was as if the confined, congenial space was the rear curtain of the stage for a mummer's play, and she standing before it, attempting to play a part whose lines she didn't know.

  “Whist! Hurry! Her ladyship's waiting for them...Oh!” A maid, racing down the hallway, exclaimed in horror as she almost walked into Prudence, rounding the corner. She looked at her with a startled expression.

  “Sorry,” Prudence said quickly.

  “You...you're...” the maidservant stammered. “One of the guests...” She trailed off, clearly frightened, and hurried away.

  “Yes,” Prudence sighed. “I am.”

  She swallowed hard. Far from fitting in here, it seemed the people in this part of the manor made even less effort to accept her than the ones upstairs in the parlor did. At least, she thought wryly, Lord Alexander and Lord Douglas and Marguerite never gawped at her openly!

  I suppose manners have some advantages.

  She might feel constrained by the genteel ways of people like Marguerite and Douglas, but they definitely eased interpersonal activities. Down here, there seemed to be no strictures on how rudely a person could respond.

  I never felt like that, Prudence thought, surprised. I would never have gawped at anyone.

  Still thinking about it – yet another thing which made her a little different from most others in the serving quarters – she found herself at the doorway of the kitchen.

  She paused and looked inside the room. The darkness of it struck her -- a cavern-like space below ground-level, it was lit mainly with the fires. A vast fire burned in an open hearth, another one confined to an oven. The heat from the pair of them poured out, making the very air seem to smell crisped. She breathed in, relishing the intense warmth scalding her lungs.

  A youth was standing at the side-board busy with some industrious work. Another person cleaned the floor, the big mop swishing in a pail. She couldn't quite tell yet if they were male or female, for they were in silhouette. She looked around, eyes adjusting to the subterranean dark.

  “Mrs. Merrick?”

  Nobody answered. She looked into the gloom. Then she crossed the threshold, feeling a little silly. She didn't really belong down there.

  “You're looking for me?” a voice called. Merrick stepped through from the garden, innocently wiping her feet on the cloth laid out before the door. Her black hair was white-touched, scraped back into a bun. Her face was severe, eyes black. However, her voice and expression were soft.

  “I was,” Prudence said, swallowing.

  Merrick had a bunch of turnips in one hand – another touch that made her seem innocuously friendly – and she set them down on the counter beside a big brass bowl, ostensibly for washing. “Well, here I am. Stewart? Get those carrots chopped! I want them for the soup for dinnertime.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Merrick.”

  Prudence watched as Mrs. Merrick rinsed turnips, frowning as she scraped at the dirt. This domestic, regular Merrick was, if anything, more disconcerting than the regal, reserved one.

  It makes me feel unsure of what she's thinking. What she's planning on doing?

  Prudence shook her head at herself. It was ridiculous how nervous this woman could make her feel! She was an ordinary person, just like any other. She found herself rolling up her sleeves, as if to help, and then licked her lips, nervously: that wasn't what she'd come down to do.

  “Um, Mrs. Merrick? Milady wished to know if we have the herbs for the...”

  “We have herbs for the treating of wounds, yes,” Merrick nodded briskly. “Anything in particular you're seeking?”

  Prudence felt her brow shoot up into her hair. Merrick actually asking her, as a colleague, was utterly unprecedented. “I thought vervain, to make a wash, and maybe yarrow?” Yarrow was good for wounds that continued bleeding, she remembered, its action somehow being to make them clot better.

  “You know your calling,” Merrick said. Her dark gaze met Prudence's levelly. It felt as if the words went further than simply a compliment on her knowledge.

  My calling. My true place.

  Prudence swallowed hard. “Um, I suppose,” she stammered.

  “You know your calling, what you were put here to do,” Merrick said quietly. The rest of the kitchen staff, if they heard, carried on heedlessly with their tasks as if they hadn't.

  Prudence nodded. She felt that black gaze assail her, as if Merrick looked right through her and out of her, seeing what secrets she held deep within her.

  “Yet you question it. You question yourself.”

  Prudence nodded again. She felt how dry her mouth had suddenly gone, and wet her lips, nervously. “Mrs. Merrick, I'm...”

  “Yes, I ken, the mistress is waiting. This isn't what you came down for, and you don't want tae hear it, eh?”

  Prudence frowned, offended. “I didn't mean that...”

  “Aye, but you did,” Merrick chuckled harshly. “You're one who always thinks you know best. You'll make yourself smaller, bend yourself in half, throw away the pearls offered to ye, to make sure you know best for yourself. To make sure you know where you really belong in this life. Is that not so?”

  Prudence stared at her. “I don't think that...”

  “Aye, but you do,” Merrick accused her. “You want to force yourself into a place when you were meant to stand on a moorland with your head held high and bow to nobody. Not to masters and not to roles.”

  Prudence looked at her hands. She felt uncomfortable, and she wanted to dismiss Merrick's speech as mere nonsense, except for the fact that it scalded all the wounded, hurting places in her soul.

  What if she's right? What if I am the only person trying to subdue me? If everyone else sees me as valuable? What if I'm the one turning my back on all that I could have with all this worrying about my status in the world?

  Prudence felt her fingers twine through each other. It was a habit when she was distressed, and she forced them to unclasp, to lie motionless at her sides. She wasn't going to let this discomforting woman see how upset she was. “Mrs. Merrick, thank you for your counsel,” she said carefully. “If there's anything you think Milady Marguerite should know, I...”

  “Oh, yes! You'll tell her for me, aye? Not quite mistress, not quite servant. That's so, eh?”

  Prudence felt a stab of anger at that. She flashed round to retort, but her anger died on her lips as Merrick, bent over the sink, resumed her duties. Like that, she seemed just an ordinary cook, doing everyday things. Her anger was misplaced.

  Her chuckle followed Prudence out.

  Upstairs, Prudence sat down on her bed, feeling confused. She had meant to try and spend the day distracting herself, trying to avoid both worrying about Alexander and thinking about that hurtful conversation. It had been hours ago now, and her room was washed with early sunset. Yet the words still haunted her mind.

  I don't think that. I never saw you that way. I'm not like that.

  That last rankled. As if, by failing to see her serva
nt status, Alexander ennobled himself. When she thought of that, Prudence felt a strong desire to slap him. How dare he think that was so self-sacrificial? Working up a good fog of anger helped to dull the pain lurking in her heart.

  She still had no idea how he really saw her. The conversation with him had solved nothing.

  Her words with him faded, replaced by the more recent discussion with Merrick.

  You'll throw away pearls to make sure you're the one who knows best where you belong.

  She frowned. Was that really accurate? Was she so headstrong, so stubborn, so fond of being right? Would she really hold her own pride – whether defiantly a servant, or nervously a cottager – above anything life had to offer her?

  Merrick's other statement echoed back to her: You were born to stand on a moorland with your head held high and bow to nobody.

  She put her hands over her ears, as if to block out the conflicting, troubled thoughts. Who was she? Why did it feel so hard, this uncertain status she held, not-quite-lady and not-quite-servant?

  Merrick held a similar position, after all. Merrick could be whoever she wished to be, Prudence thought wistfully, remembering. She had seen Merrick transform twice that afternoon – from the friendly cook to the powerful seer and then to an ordinary woman, bent over her tasks.

  Merrick defined herself, or seemed to. And yet, were not all those things – cook, seer, older woman – the way Prudence perceived?

  Shaking her head, feeling like these unsettled thoughts would drive her crazy, she stood and walked out into the hallway. As she opened the door, she was met by a maidservant, who ran quickly down the hall.

  “What is it?” Prudence breathed.

  “It's the men! They've been sighted. They're coming back!”

  A SURPRISING EVENT

  “Ride! We have to go faster! They'll see us!”

  Alexander shouted over his shoulder. The roar of hoof-beats filled the air, mixed with the dizzying whiz of gunshots and the shouts of command.

  The hilltop at Falmoor was a slaughterhouse. Alexander looked round over his shoulder, seeing the chaos that was unfolding there. His own men were out of it now, riding down the vertiginous slope beside him.

  “Not so fast,” he yelled to one of them, a feckless youth who, grinning, raced past him, red hair flagging the wind.

  He saw the youth slow, and sighed inwardly with relief. The slope was perilous – so much so that he wondered at their risking riding downhill, and any racers were liable to have a fall.

  As it was, the men around him tried in vain to stay together. He watched as they reined in, riding side-by-side, a ragged group that sped ahead of the last bullets, which followed them like tossed stones speeding downhill.

  “Whoa!” Alexander called again, cautioning a grizzled rider who was racing beside him, and then he gasped and jerked sideways as a bullet shot past.

  The motion tugged at the wound in his shoulder, making it hurt above the nagging itch he always felt there. He winced and turned away to survey the progress.

  His men were mostly down the worst section. They had reached the trees and he led them in, relieved that, at least, the last riflemen on the hilltop could no longer shoot at them.

  As they reached relative safety, he felt his whole body slump forward, relief washing through him like water. It had worked.

  He leaned forward, patting his horse's neck in weary thanks. They stopped where they were, exhausted. All around him, he could hear panting as men and horses sought to catch their breath.

  They had made it.

  The plan, Alexander thought, as his mind came slowly back to being able to think, and reflect, worked. Their force had surprised the men gathered on the hilltop, and they had mostly managed to dislodge them. In any case, they had betrayed their position to the troops, who, led by Colonel Brewer from the fort, rode past.

  The battle that had ensued had been difficult, primarily due to the fact that it was impossible for the soldiers down below to distinguish friend from foe. Alexander, who rode in his own tartan, had dodged many bullets sent at him by the very men who they had sought to help, as a brave few rode up the defile to add their weight to the combat.

  “Now. We should get back before dark.”

  “Aye, captain.”

  The man who said it was the grizzled fellow who had all but disobeyed Alexander's orders earlier. He raised a brow, feeling surprised.

  These men had accepted him, when they had little reason to. All they knew about him was that he was some jumped-up fellow from up north, riding from the Jacobite forces for aid.

  He blinked, surprised. Maybe he wasn't so reliant on his earldom status after all, or his title. Maybe men saw something innate in him, some characteristic that made them look to him for leadership. “So, men,” he said, clearing his throat. “Catch your breath, and let's go. We'll be slow.”

  “Aye, sir,”

  “Yes, cap'n.”

  The men wearily assembled behind him, and together they all rode down the hill.

  It was nearing nightfall by the time they caught sight of the gateway of Duncliffe. Alexander, weary but elated, felt his spirits lift.

  “We made it back home.”

  He patted his horse's neck again, briefly looking around at his men. Vague shadows in the darkness, he spotted the whites of eyes and, here and there, the flash of a grin.

  Even though this wasn't their conflict, the men of Duncliffe seemed well-pleased by the result.

  “When we get there, you're all getting a feast,” Alexander promised.

  He hadn't actually asked Douglas, but he guessed he must have made sure something was prepared. After all, he recalled, Prudence had mentioned victuals.

  As the men around him whooped and smiled, Alexander felt his own heart cool slightly.

  What was he going to say to Prudence?

  Nudging his horse with his knees, he rode forward through the high gate.

  Inside, there were men with torches lit, waiting to meet them. A fellow took Alexander's weary horse to the stables, after he’d dismounted. Alexander stood on legs that felt as if they refused to move.

  He looked up at the manor, nervously. His shoulder nagged him. He gritted his teeth. He would have to try and dress it himself – there was no way he was going to ask Prudence to help him. He didn't have that kind of nerve.

  Feeling weary elation mixed a little with sorrow, he headed up the steps. His legs ached.

  “Alexander,” Douglas greeted him lightly. “You're returned. What news?”

  “We did it.”

  Douglas didn't smile, but something in his eyes warmed. He clapped him on the shoulder. Alexander grimaced. Even such a small touch made him almost lose his balance, and he realized afresh how tired he was.

  “Come and join us in the parlor?” Douglas asked.

  “I'd love to,” Alexander said, as he walked with Douglas through the vast doorway. “But first, I'd like a bath.”

  Upstairs, in the small but pleasant room he'd been assigned in Duncliffe, he lay back in the bath drawn by the manservant and looked up at the roof. His weary body slowly relaxed, knotted muscles sighing with relief as he lay in soapy water. He breathed in the clean scent of carbolic and winced as the soap stung his wound. He twisted his head to look at it.

  The stitches still held it shut, but the flesh had healed around them, leaving only a dark line with a small portion still open in the center, and that clean dark black-red of dried blood.

  I've never had such a cleanly-healing wound.

  Even the small scars he had were once raw, suppurating gashes, which had mostly taken weeks to heal. This had grown back nicely in two weeks, with only the center part still open and clean.

  “Prudence, why do you have to be such a good healer?”

  He sighed. If she wasn't so competent, so driven, so good at so many things, he would probably have found it easier to speak with her, to reason with her. As it was, he found himself unsure what to say, his words tripping over
themselves like panicked men in a retreat.

  He sighed again, turning over in the soapy water. It was starting to get cold. He'd do best to get out of it, or risk getting chilled.

  He reached for the linen towel the servant had left, draped over a chair, for him to use. As he wrapped it round himself, someone tapped at the door. “Hello?”

  He froze. He recognized that voice. It was Prudence.

  Hastily looking down at his naked body, he went pink. “Just a moment,” he called.

  Drying himself faster than he had ever thought achievable, he reached for his clean shirt and shrugged it on, wincing as the pain thrummed through his shoulder. She had seen him without a shirt before, he thought distantly, reaching for his trews. They were altogether more of a problem.

  Hastening to get them on, fumbling with the belt-clasp as if he had all thumbs, he ran to the door. “Yes? What is it?”

  Prudence appeared as he opened it, her pretty face tilted up to stare at him.

  “Um...I am here to check for wounds,” she said. “I've finished seeing to the wounded men. I couldn't find you in the hall.”

  “I wanted a bath,” he said. He shrugged, feeling uncommonly discomforted.

  “I see,” Prudence said. Her face wore a little frown.

  “What?” he asked, his heart starting to thump.

  “Your shirt,” she said. “It's on backwards.”

  Alexander looked down, horrified. He stared. She was right! He hadn't bothered to unbutton and re-fasten it, just shrugged it on, with the net result that the buttons faced backwards, the front a plain surface that hung down to just cover his loins. He went red.

  “Um, yes,” he said. “It is! I was rushed.”

  Prudence raised a brow. Her face was still blank, and her eyes appraised. “Well, you might as well turn it around,” she said evenly. “I have to check your wound.”

  “Um, oh. Yes.” Alexander swallowed hard. He felt so foolish! If they hadn't been recently in the midst of an argument, he might have managed a little better. However, being caught in so vulnerable a state by someone with whom he'd just been exchanging hostile words felt a little silly.