by Quinn, Paula
“But we should have heard something by now, don’t you think?” He grabbed the poker and prodded the coals, coaxing a fresh burst of flame from them. “Why is it taking so long?”
There followed a most unladylike snort. “It’ll be a good while yet, my dear. Quite possibly tomorrow.”
Aldous groaned and dropped into a chair. “I fear she’s not strong enough to endure that long, Mother. I hope this Huntley fellow knows what he’s doing. What if something goes wrong?”
“Nothing will go wrong,” Lady Hutton replied. “Grace has been radiant all the way through her grossesse. Indeed, I’ve never seen a woman quite so suited to it. And Horace Huntley is one of the best accoucheurs in the land. He delivered all of Lady Creighton’s nine offspring with not a single problem.”
Aldous grunted. “Lady Creighton is built like a shire horse. She probably popped them out with nary a squeak.”
“Aldous, really!”
“Whereas Grace is…delicate.”
“You underestimate her.”
“I don’t, usually. But this is different.”
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” his mother said. “Have faith.”
A miracle? In truth, Aldous had thought the same thing many times during the past few months.
At the start of his marriage to Grace, eighteen months earlier, Aldous had clung onto a hope that the mess wrought by that fragment of shrapnel had not been as bad as suspected. Their love warranted being blessed by the miracle of life, he thought, for their passion for each other was as pure as it was profound. Yet not once did he see disappointment on Grace’s face when, month after month, her menses arrived. He wondered if she saw the disappointment on his, despite his efforts to hide it. Several months after their marriage, Aldous decided to set his little piece of hope aside and accept what was.
Then, on a bright morning in the middle of July, after almost a year of marriage, Grace sat down for breakfast with a smile on her face. “I told you I didn’t believe in curses, Aldous,” she’d said, heaping scrambled eggs onto her plate. “If it’s a boy, I’d like to name him Julian.”
Grace had adamantly refused to have the child anywhere else but Highfield. As her time had drawn near, Aldous secured the services of Horace Huntley, a reputable accoucheur, who’d taken up residence at Highfield a fortnight since. Lady Hutton had arrived the following week and taken over the running of the household without apology.
Aldous closed his eyes and sank back in the chair. A Christmas miracle? I pray so. Please, God, let Grace be all right. Let our child be born healthy and strong.
He opened his eyes and sat up. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“I thought I heard something.”
Lady Hutton gave him an amused glance. “I didn’t hear anything, my dear.”
“I did, Mother. I know I did.” Aldous left his chair, went to the foot of the stairs, and gazed up into the shadows on the landing, hearing only silence. Maybe he’d imagined the sound. Or maybe it was simply the remnant of a memory he’d long since put to rest.
But it came again. An unmistakable wail of protest, issued by a child unimpressed by his or her journey into the world. A strong protest, too, becoming stronger by the moment. Nothing weak or hesitant about it.
“Well, that didn’t take long,” his mother said, moving to stand beside him. “And that’s a lusty cry. A good sign.”
But what of Grace? Aldous started up the stairs.
“You should perhaps wait till you’re summoned, Aldous,” his mother said.
“My child is crying, Mother,” he replied, without looking back. “That is summons enough.”
As Aldous reached the bedroom door, the wailing ceased. He held his breath and reached for the door handle just as the door swung open.
Horace Huntley flinched. “Ah, Captain Northcott. You startled me. I was about to summon you. Congratulations, sir, on the birth of your son. A healthy boy!”
A son? Aldous swallowed. “And what of my wife? Is she all right?”
The man beamed. “She’s in excellent health, sir. The birth was as straightforward as they come. No complications at all. Come in, please! Mrs. Northcott is eager to see you. I’ll leave you in private.”
“Thank you, Mr. Huntley.”
Aldous stepped into the room and looked to the bed where Grace was propped up against a wall of pillows, gazing down at a bundle in her arms. She lifted her head, her expression radiant. “Oh, Aldous, look! Come and look at your son. He’s perfect.”
He approached, not looking at his son, but at Grace. The vision of her had all but stopped his heart. Her hair, a mass of soft unbound curls, tumbled over her shoulders, a soft blush of pink dusted her cheeks and joy, brighter than the stars in the sky, shone in her eyes.
He bent and kissed her. “You look wonderful, my darling.”
“I feel wonderful, Aldous.” Grace lifted the bundle. “Here’s your son, my love. Julian Aldous Northcott. Our Christmas miracle.”
Aldous took the bundle and gazed down at the tiny, puckered face, his heart filling with a new and wondrous emotion.
“Hello, Julian,” he whispered. “Welcome to Highfield.” And then, for the first time in over twenty years, Aldous Northcott wept.
“Oh, Aldous,” Grace murmured.
It took him several minutes to gather himself, during which time Grace had not said a word.
“Forgive me.” He sniffed and settled the child back in her arms. “I’m not sure where that came from.”
“It was long overdue, my love,” Grace said. “Did you light the candle yet?”
“No.” Aldous bent and kissed her again. “I’ll go and do it now.”
He wandered along the landing, his stride slowing as he drew close to the window, puzzled by what he saw. “Who…?”
He blinked, trying to remember if he’d already lit the solitary candle that now cast its golden light across the small panes of glass. No, he definitely hadn’t. One of the servants, perhaps? No, lighting the candle was a family ritual. They wouldn’t be so bold. And his mother? It would never occur to her to do such a thing. “Then who…?”
He stood for a moment, watching the flame burn steadily, and he dared to believe there’d been two Christmas miracles that night. As if in response, the sound of a baby’s cry arose in the air, and the candle flickered.
“A sign of life,” Aldous murmured as he turned away. “I’ll take good care of them, Julian. I promise.”
THE END…
of the beginning.
Look out for a delicious new series about Highfield and the Northcotts
coming summer of 2020!
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About the Author
Born and raised in Cumbria, England, Avril now resides in Ontario, Canada. A lover of history, legend, and romance, her books embrace those elements. Her Welsh/Irish roots also weave their way through much of her writing, and she does have a bit of a dark side too, which sneaks out now and then. When not writing, she enjoys reading, walking her dog, and spending time with family and friends.
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A Merry MacNaughton Mishap
Aubrey Wynne
Chapter One
A Reluctant Rescue
Mid-March 1777
The Highlands
“Saints and sinners!” Calum MacNaughton blinked against fat, wet flakes blowing across his vision.
Black Angus gave a low growl, and Calum checked his horse. The young Scottish deerhound was Calum’s devoted shadow, always protective and waiting for his master’s command. Hackles rose on the dog’s snow-covered back. A riderless horse galloped over the next ridge, its wild eyes rolled back in fear, reins dangling dangerously along the ground as it galloped toward them.
“Easy, there,” he called to the frightened beastie. “Easy, there.” The horse slowed to a stop and pawed the ground, nostrils flared, sending small white puffs into the air. Its hide glistened and quivered from the water dripping down its mane and saddle blanket.
“And where have ye been, my friend? Taking a wee dip in Dubh Loch?” He dismounted and slowly approached the animal, taking its reins and signaling Angus to stay. There must be a rider nearby, but friend or foe? The Craiggs’ land bordered the MacNaughtons’ not far from here, and neither clan held any love for the other.
The foursome climbed the ridge, the runaway horse calm now with its new companions. Below, the sound of splashing echoed among the frosted pines surrounding the half-frozen loch below. Calum saw a man floundering in the icy water. He must have broken through the thin ice. Why would any sane person attempt crossing at this time of year?
“Mac na galla,” he cursed as he climbed back in the saddle. Leading the stray horse, they made their way down the hill. “I suppose I’ll have to go after the eejit.”
By the time he reached the bottom, the man was clinging to the frozen edge, his strength sapped, and barely afloat. His sodden plaid pulled heavily at the man’s shoulders and Calum could see the strength ebbing from his grip.
Calum gave Angus a command to guard the mounts and moved onto the thickest part of the ice. The closer to the center, the thinner the surface and soon he would be on his belly crawling toward the barely conscious man.
“What’s yer name, mon?” Calum needed the man alert. Pulling dead weight over thin ice would be nearly impossible.
“Malachi,” came a hoarse response.
“Weel, didna yer mother teach ye to swim in the summer?”
“Aye, b-but I was never a g-g-ood listener.”
“Ye need to do better today, Malachi. I’m going to get as close as I can to ye, then on the count of the three, ye need to grab my wrist. Can ye do that?”
“Aye,” said the man through faintly blue lips.
“I’m almost there, mon. Dinna close yer eyes,” he called in a low, soothing tone as he continued his slow, careful steps toward the opening. If the man spooked, he might lose his grip and sink below the ice. The body wouldn’t be found until late spring. “Think of that fine whisky I’ll feed ye as soon as we’re out of here.”
Dull green eyes struggled to focus, but a faint nod acknowledged that he’d heard. Icicles clung to the ends of his dark hair and moved against his cheeks as his teeth chattered, creating an eerie echo across the ice. Cr-r-r-a-a-c-k! A chill went through Calum that had nothing to do with the temperature. “God’s bones, it’s giving way.”
His gaze locked with the man’s, the look of fear fading as his lids began to droop. He was giving up. “G-go back. S-s-save yerself.”
“Och, I’m one of those stubborn fools who finishes what he begins. We’ll both laugh when we tell our adventure to our grandchildren.” Calum eased onto his knees then spread out across the slick surface. Another rumble under his wet, chilled belly sent a shot of desperation through his body and strengthened his own resolve. Wet snow and ice seeped through openings of his plaid as he wormed his way across the loch. They’d both be frozen memories soon.
With a whistle, he called for help. “Angus, trobhad!” The deerhound whined then gingerly stepped onto the loch, moving toward his master little by little.
“We have one chance to get this right, friend, so listen well.” He stretched out his arm. “Grab on to me and hold on with all the strength ye’ve got left. One, two, three!”
The man gritted his chattering teeth, dug his nails into the ice, and thrust one arm out. Calum latched on to his wrist, surprised at the strength the exhausted man still possessed. His clammy slick skin was already puckered with a grayish cast.
As he began to pull, he saw the colors of the Craigg tartan on the underside of the man’s plaid. Christ’s bones. But there wasn’t time to worry about whose skin he was saving. With his free hand, he leaned around, pulled his dirk from his hose, and jabbed the blade into the ice for leverage.
He looked over his shoulder at Black Angus. “Tarraing!”
Angus sniffed at his master’s backside, and Calum rewarded him with an “aye” when the black nose touched the end of his plaid. The hound latched on to the wool with powerful jaws and began to pull his master backwards. Calum pushed against his blade at the same time, then pulled it from the ice, and jammed it back down.
“Tarraing!” The dog pulled, he pushed. Water sloshed over the edge of ice as Malachi’s chest emerged from the water, soaking Calum’s front and sending needles of pain across his thighs.
Malachi’s legs emerged from the water, and he fumbled for his own dirk, digging it into the ice. With a shaking hand and clenched teeth, he pulled at his blade along with the deerhound as Calum continued to push until all three were lying on the bank of the frozen loch.
Two sets of chattering teeth now filled the silence. Calum rolled onto his back, breathing heavy. “I’m no’ afraid to tell ye, I was a wee bit worried neither of us would make it home this day.” He grinned as Angus licked his face and whined. Burying his fingers in the dog’s wiry black and gray coat, he pulled himself to a sitting position. “I dinna think my dog is verra happy either.”
Tiny icicles pelted his face as he sat up and realized he was talking to his dog and an unconscious man. A stream of curses sounded from Calum as he rose and hoisted the still form over his shoulder. Frigid water slid down his back and side as Malachi’s sopping clothes pressed against his body. After a bit of maneuvering, the body sagged over the saddle, feet dangling on one side, arms on the other. He pulled the second blanket from his own horse with an apologetic pat.
“Sorry, old boy, but he needs it more,” he told the horse.
“It’s no’ the most comfortable, my new friend, but it will get ye home.” Friend. His da will have a fit not only for saving a Craigg but for bringing one home. “And for the love of Mary, ye better no’ die after all the trouble ye’ve put us through.” Angus howled his agreement, the hound’s golden eyes still watching the stranger warily.
Calum took up the reins from the spare horse, climbed back on his gelding, and clicked to both horses and dog. He secured the heavy wool tightly around his neck, pulled his cap down against the blustery wind, and cursed the early spring storm. With a nudge to his mount’s flank, they carefully picked their way back up the hill.
“It’s colder than a Sassenach’s heart on eviction day at the orphanage.” Black Angus barked in response as he padded behind in the horse’s tracks.
The snow was accumulating quickly, but they had less than an hour before the round tower of MacNaughton Castle greeted their eyes. Visions of a large hearth, warm spiced wine, and a willing lass filled his head. He should have stopped at the last inn and waited out the brewing storm. The stew was good, and the barmaid always ready for a romp.
When he’d left the village that morning, the sun had glinted off the snow-covered rooftops with the promise of a bright day. But the weather was her own mistress and as fickle
as a honey bee in a field of wildflowers. He grinned. A bit of water never stopped a Highlander, whether it be frozen or falling from the sky.
*
By the time the bedraggled group reached MacNaughton Castle, Calum’s stomach rumbled and his fingers ached from the cold. He’d tucked his face inside the wet plaid, creating a warm but moist protection for most of his body. The steam beneath kept him warm as the outer wool turned into a crackling, icy shell.
The rescued Highlander hadn’t stirred, but a groan had occasionally slipped past his blue lips. Considering Da’s hatred of the Craigg Clan, and the feud that had simmered for generations, he decided not to announce his guest to the family. Entering the stable yard, he called for the head groom.
“Rory, help me get this man to the kitchen. He fell through the ice and isna doing so well.” Dismounting, he handed his reins off to one of the lads who came running. “Rub them both down good, boy. It’s been a long journey.”
“He’s a Craigg,” Rory whispered loudly, his face turning the same dull red as his hair. He scooped up one arm under his shoulder, and they half-carried, half-dragged the man up the hill, kicking up a cloud of white in their wake.
“I ken that, but he’ll be dead if we dinna get him before a fire.” Calum pushed the door handle down with an elbow and kicked the thick oak with his leather boot. “Keep this between us for now. If we say anything, the poor man stands a better chance in the frozen loch. If he dies, there’s no need to tell Da.”
“I wouldna want to be the one to tell him,” Rory agreed, his brown eyes bright with mischief. “My memory isna what it used to be.”
“Thank ye for yer help. And remember, no’ a word.” They dropped the limp form onto a bench next to the hearth and Rory returned to the stable. Calum’s mouth watered when he took in the aroma of fresh bread. Several skewered birds roasted over a low fire, their juices sizzling as they dripped onto the flames. A young boy sat next to the hearth and turned the spit.
