A Scot to Remember

by Angeline Fortin

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” he protested.

  She truly didn’t mind the rear-facing seat unlike some who had troubles riding backwards. However, with Hazel beaming at her and patting the space next to the window, Henry looking insistent...and especially Tris, who looked as if he expected her to argue the courtesy, she took it without further argument.

  When in Rome. Embrace the madness.

  The view from the window immediately caught her attention as they moved out of the station. Edinburgh as she’d never seen it. How could a city change so little yet appear utterly different? The skyline wasn’t stunted, absent of towering metal monstrosities and glass monoliths as London would have been when comparing the start of one century to the next. They moved west out of town. Urban giving way to rural far quicker than it would in her time. They traveled past farms ready to be harvested and fields dotted with Highland cows. They lifted their heads as the train passed, watching through the shaggy coppery fur that fell over their eyes. In the distance, she could see the waters of the Firth of Forth to the north and the distinctive silhouette of the Forth Bridge.

  Then she noticed them. Intermittent old-fashioned telephone poles keeping pace with the train tracks and the dark wire looping between them. She hadn’t seen anything like it since she was a child when her family would make road trips from Tribeca to rural destinations in upstate New York and New England.

  “What’s captured your attention so completely, dear?”

  She turned back around and looked from Hazel’s hand on her arm then up to meet the woman’s inquisitive smile. She took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. “Nothing in particular. I was lost in the view.”

  “I thought you’d been here before,” Tris said, the scrutiny back in his gaze.

  “I have, but...”

  “But it’s been a long time?” He offered the excuse she’d used before as if he sensed something more lay beyond the words.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve been out in the countryside.” Not the excuse a woman supposedly touring the northern counties of England should offer. There was nothing but countryside in those regions. Hadn’t she just given herself a lecture about blending in? “I’d forgotten how charming and peaceful this area can be, with no buildings,” — and technology — “to spoil the view. I was simply taking it all in.”

  “Brontë has a fine point,” Henry said, following her gaze out the window. “We spend much of our lives looking without truly seeing. Yesterday’s events have had me thinking more and more about life and what it may bring if we give it due appreciation.” He smiled at his wife, who had unshed tears shimmering in her eyes. “I mean to take better notice of the blessings I have and to seize each day as if it’s my last.”

  Since it quite nearly was, if history couldn’t be changed yet again, Brontë too felt the well of hot tears. Each day was a gift. Granny and Aila’s insight had been in the right. Stop fearing what could go awry and accept the gifts she’d been given. The opportunities and chances. This time with Henry and Hazel.

  And embracing whatever may be with Tris for as long as it might last. “We should all do so.”

  Henry smiled at her with a nod. “Indeed, my dear.”

  A knock at the door broke the mawkish mood inside the compartment. Outside an older woman in a ruffled cap and apron pushing a wooden cart smiled kindly around at them all and asked in a sweet Scottish burr, “Anything from the trolley, dears?”

  Exactly like the movie. Brontë couldn’t help the grin that spread from ear to ear. “That’s awesome.”

  She looked from Henry to Tris, both whose lips twitched in response to her unexplainable enthusiasm.

  “Speaking of seizing the day.” Tris reached for his wallet. “We’ll take the lot, shall we?”

  Word for word, a practically perfect response.

  Chapter 15

  Glenrothes, Scotland

  August 29, 1914

  IN BRONTË’S TIME, THE landscape around the hamlet of Glenrothes was largely farmland. Today the fields were not as sprawling. The woodlands crowded closer to town than the aerial views she’d seen on the computer. A caravan of vehicles had been sent to transport them all from the train station. Not only family and nannies, but Hazel’s maid and Maddie who’d been sent along to assist her as well as valets for both Henry and Tris. In the lead car with the others with the top down in favor of the sunny day, she held tight to her hat as they traveled north out of town. The cool Highland wind kept the heat of the day at bay and brought the scent of mown grass and heather to her nose. A perfect day thus far, the lively conversation from the train continued as Henry provided an animated narrative, despite the fact that Hyacinth was slung over one shoulder fast asleep, pointing out landmarks along the way.

  “There’s a great many footpaths through the woodlands if you fancy a walk,” he told her. “All of this was once hunting grounds for the royal Stuarts. Mary, Queen of Scots resided at Falkland Palace. Magnificent example of Renaissance architecture.”

  “Will we be able to see it from the road?”

  The single-track road frequently offered breathtaking views of the passing landscape. However for most of the drive thus far, they’d been canopied by the delicate lacework of tree branches arching over the road.

  “The palace is a few miles farther north from Glen Cairn Manor,” Tris told her.

  “We could make a day of it one day though,” Hazel offered. “Take a picnic up and visit, if you like.”

  “That would be lovely,” Brontë agreed with a smile. There was another break in the trees then, and in the distance, she saw a sprawling gothic edifice with spires protruding from a squared tower near the center and multiple other peaks and turrets reaching for the sky. She’d toured many historic castles around Scotland and England over the course of her life. Few as impressive and daunting. “Is that not the castle there?”

  The trio laughed. “Nay, that’s our destination,” Tris told her.

  “Oh?” She should say something nice, polite about the place. How stunning it was, formidable. Large. “It’s very...”

  “Aye,” he said with a grin when she failed to come up with an apt descriptor. “She’s a proper beast, is Glen Cairn Manor. My great-grandda built it to spite the English woman he wanted to marry after she chose an English duke over him.”

  As depressing as the exterior of the manor. “How sad.”

  Tris shook his head. “Not at all. Turns out he knew nothing of the matter. She’d been locked away to prevent her from running away with him and forced into marriage with the duke.”

  Even sadder. “Men often know nothing,” she said. “What happened then?”

  Tris grinned at Henry, whose lips twitched. “What do you mean?”

  “Surely that wasn’t the end of it?”

  “Why couldn’t it be?” Henry asked.

  “Well, he loved her, and I presume if she had to be locked up to keep from running away with him, she loved him as well,” Brontë explained. “So that can’t be it.”

  Tris turned to her, brows lifted in surprise. “Why, Miss Hughes. You’re a romantic. I never would have thought.”

  He knew nothing at all. Everything she’d done in this venture had been for the sake of love. Yes, despite her woes and pessimism on the general topic, she was a romantic.

  Henry took mercy on her. “The pair found one another again in their middle years after the duchess was widowed, and they married.”

  “And he dragged her here to live in the physical representation of his vindictiveness?”

  “They made a happy home here, if legend is true,” Tris said. “It wasn’t quite so sizeable in the beginning if that provides you any solace. My grandda added on to it to a great extent. Another wing for each of his children.”

  As they drew closer, she could make out an extensive branch that extended from the westward side of the building and jutted toward them. It was huge already. How big would it be when they got closer? “How many did they h
ave?”

  “Eleven,” he said. “Ten lads and a single lass. Ye’ll meet most of them here.”

  Yikes. That was a terrifying thought.

  “And you grew up here?”

  He inclined his head. “Mostly in the summers, but for the most part I grew up where I live now in Edinburgh.”

  Brontë twisted back to look at him. “You still live with your parents?”

  “Is that so odd to you?” he asked. “Our rowhouse has four floors and eight bedrooms. It’s often difficult to locate another soul even when we’re all in residence.”

  “That’s when he comes to see us,” Hazel teased.

  Which? When he was all alone or to escape when all his family was there? Was Tris often lonely? She shook her head at the ridiculous thought and another snuck in behind it. As lonely as she?

  Now she was the one talking to Aila and her grandmother too much.

  “A curious line of questioning, Brontë,” Henry put in. “As I know few adults who venture from their family estates to live alone unless necessary.”

  “You live alone,” she felt compelled to point out.

  Henry chuckled. “Actually, it’s my mother’s home as well. She’s been staying at my country estate in Stirling for the past month or so with some friends of hers. Is it so odd? Do you not reside with relatives?”

  “I do live with my grandmother currently,” she admitted. “Before that however, I had my own flat.”

  “Alone?” Hazel asked with an expression of disbelief.

  “No. I had a roommate.”

  She didn’t mention that she’d shared the London flat with her live-in boyfriend with whom she had frequent sex out of wedlock. The details might not go over well in this particular environment. “I did live alone for a couple of years after college.”

  All eyes turned to her. She really had no filters. There was a vast expanse of differentiation between resolving to fit in with the time and the practical application of that determination. Thinking with an Edwardian state of mind before speaking was necessary to avoid drawing unwanted questions. On the other hand, curiosity was hard to contain. Changing the subject before anyone could press for details, she asked Henry, “Is your country estate like this?”

  Hazel laughed outright at the question while Henry shifted his waking daughter from his shoulder to his lap. “The whole of mine might fit in the right wing of Glen Cairn Manor. In fact, I believe Burnham Castle could fit in beside it with room to spare.”

  “You have a castle, too?”

  “It’s more moldering ruin than structure. And quite uninhabitable. More’s the pity.”

  “You could restore it,” Brontë suggested thinking of the dozens of castles and manors Historic Scotland preserved.

  Henry shook his head. “If you’d seen it, you’d know it’s a project beyond hope. Tris’s uncle, the Earl of Glenrothes, has a castle that he’s been restoring with better luck.”

  “Really?” She turned back to Tris.

  “Aye, though my Uncle Colin has taken over the project for the past two decades.”

  “Two decades? By himself?”

  “Nay, though that’s a story that will have to wait for another time.”

  They passed through ornate iron gates left open for them. Each side possessing a brick tower with gothic windows and quadripartite vaulted roofs with slate shingles. A substantial gate house in the same style stood off to the side. Through the tunnel created by the oaks planted along the drive, she could see the manor ahead. Or rather, a small portion of it. The remainder came into view as they broke past the tree line presenting the magnificent vista in full.

  As they pulled under the carriage porch extending in front of the main entrance, she noticed a dozen people poured from a set of doors at the end of the westerly wing; all of them in matching black and white uniforms — obviously a massive residence would need a substantial staff.

  Brontë didn’t know about building it, but the cost to maintain such a goliath had to be astronomical. Pondering the notion, she absently took Tris’s offered arm and allowed him to help her out of the car and up the dozen stairs to the intricately carved wood doors held by a pair of footmen. Inside the warmth disappeared with the sunlight. Heating the place alone would be a bitch.

  Her heels clicked along the marble tiles on the floor, ringing hollowly in the mammoth entrance hall. A six-tiered chandelier hung overhead. Dusting it would take an army. “How many rooms are there?”

  “One hundred and seven, I believe,” Tris told her. “Some twenty-six bedchambers. I’d be happy to provide a tour later if you like.”

  Approaching footsteps sounded, reverberating off the walls until she couldn’t tell from which direction they were coming. The numbers he’d given her struck Brontë with astonishment. This wasn’t a manor. It was a mansion. Larger than any she’d ever heard of.

  “What are you thinking?”

  She looked around in awe and a snort of humor. “Honestly? I’m wondering how much it costs to maintain a place like this. I mean, heating costs alone must be outrageous. Add in general upkeep and repairs?”

  “My uncle can afford it. I assure you,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry your bonny head over it.”

  It took a heartbeat for his words to register. Gaping up at him in disbelief, she tugged her arm out of his grasp. A few hours of his charming company had made her forget the one thing about him that maddened her the most. How could she have forgotten? The norm of the era might force her to accept it, but she didn’t have to like it. Couldn’t imagine assimilating to it. Especially coming from him. A man of humor and insight — rare insight — who she thought was truly beginning to understand her.

  “Did you really just say that? Not to worry my bonny head?”

  Tris looked lost in the face of her outrage, casting about for where he went wrong. “I told you ye needn’t worry as my uncle has fortune enough to keep the place.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” she shot back. “I was curious, hence my general bemusement on the issue. One I mentioned out loud only because you asked me what I was thinking. Even if I’d been genuinely inquiring on the matter — which I wouldn’t because it would be impolite to do so — I’d expect a rational response, not a pat on the head like I’m a dull child!”

  He stared at her dumbfounded as if she now had two heads in place of her single, empty bonny one, his green eyes narrowing as his brows drew in. Then down. Oh, no. He did not get to be angry about this. “Lass, ye’re the most...”

  “Tristram?”

  They both swung around to see two couples lingering in the archway to the next room. A quick glance around told her Henry, Hazel and the nannies all stared at them as well. As were the footmen and the score or more people gathering from all directions.

  Brontë blinked and looked back to the petite, angelic blonde who’d spoken. Next to her...well, there could be no doubting Tris’s paternity. He was an older version of the man next to her.

  His parents.

  She swallowed hard. The other man at the door must be another uncle. She could see the family resemblance to those she’d met at the theater. The lady at his side was gorgeous and elegant with a shrewd expression that had Brontë fighting the urge to fidget.

  “Ma.” Tris bent to embrace the diminutive woman who looked about forty or so. Hardly old enough to be his mother, surely. He kissed her cheek and offered a hand to the man at her side. “Da.”

  “Won’t you introduce us to your companion?” the other, taller woman asked politely though it would have been impossible to disguise the curiosity in her voice or the inquisitiveness of her sea green eyes.

  Tris stepped back with a slight bow. “May I present Hazel’s cousin, Miss Brontë Hughes visiting from America? Miss Hughes, may I present the Earl and Countess of Glenrothes and my parents, Lord and Lady Richard MacKintosh, Lord and Lady of Glen Cairn.”

  Such a grand introduction demanded a curtsey or something, but Brontë was fuming too much to consider the c
orrect niceties of the time. Stepping forward, she held out her hand and shook his uncle’s hand, as he was the first to offer it. “Thank you for having me.”

  She turned to his aunt next. “You have a lovely home. Thank you for inviting me.”

  She had. In writing. The invitation had arrived that morning.

  Gathering her courage, Brontë turned to his parents, greeting his mother and reading amusement in her gaze now. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Is it?”

  Brontë had the good grace to flush. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t intend to ruin his homecoming.”

  “You haven’t.”

  With an aggrieved sigh, Brontë couldn’t help but add, “I have no idea how you bear such a big dunderhead.”

  His mother grinned at that, as did his father. “I managed.”

  Tris groaned aloud and she got the feeling they thought she was referring to his mother’s diminutive stature when compared to all the men around her. Something that clearly was a family joke somehow. “That, too,” Brontë agreed. “However, I was referring to tolerating the person he is today.”

  Lady MacKintosh grinned. If possible, the show of humor amplified her beauty. “He’s ordinarily a rather polite young man. I apologize if he’s put you out of sorts.”

  “He excels at it, ma’am.”

  “I can hear ye, ye ken?”

  His mother laughed again. This time his father joined in. “I’m so glad you were able to change your plans and stay with us. I shall enjoy seeing if my son has met his match in you.”

  Brontë looked from them to the others around the room, all of whom were now smiling in a doting fashion. As if they all thought she was here because...that she’d stayed because...

  Oh, this was too much. She tolerated her granny’s interference in her love life, and somehow reaching the ripe age of twenty-six without marrying made her an aberration everyone in this time hoped to remedy. But to have all of these people think she’d come along with the sole purpose of yanking Tris’s eligible bachelorhood out from under him was too, too much.