“I had a biscuit this morning.”
“Och, ye canna survive on a bit of bread. Think of the bairn ye may be carrying.”
Alisabeth shook her head, picking at the embroidered band around her waist. The intertwining crimson circles on the belt provided the only color on her black linen skirt and bodice. Tears threatened to spill down her face, and her voice was barely audible. “No, my menses came this morning.”
“Shh, Lissie, shh. I know it’s a disappointment. For all of us.” Peigi set the bottles down she had gathered for the guests.
“Lass, stop torturing yerself over things ye cannot control.” Another burst of deep laughter floated from the other room. “Let’s be more like our men folk and think of the good times. Ian would want us laughing with the others, not off by ourselves crying on what might have been.”
If Alisabeth had been with child, the MacNaughtons would have been her family until she died. But as a widow with no bairns, she would most likely go home. The emptiness in her heart consumed her. Although she and Ian had not been a love match, he had been her closest and most trusted friend since she could remember. Their relationship may not have been passionate but their deep affection and fierce loyalty to one another had given them a more solid foundation than most couples ever achieved in a lifetime of living together.
“Let’s join our neighbors, shall we?” The old woman wrapped her in a fierce hug. Her soft, wrinkled cheek touched the young wet one, sharing the tears.
Alisabeth nodded. Her mother saw them enter and moved forward. She tenderly adjusted the white kertch covering her daughter’s hair and smoothed it down her back. “How’s my Lissie?”
“Fine until I see yer eyes go all soft, and then mine begin to burn.” She sniffed and gave her ma a watery smile. “How does a mother manage to bring out those emotions her children always try to hide?”
“It’s maternal instinct, and ye’ll have it one day. I promise.” She squeezed Lissie’s hand. “Now, is everything ready for tomorrow?”
“Aye.” After the funeral, she would find a quiet place to curl up and mourn. And decide what to do next. Go home? Who would she share her dreams with? Who would laugh at her clumsiness? Who would understand her better than Ian had? She needed to escape the benevolent looks and find a new purpose. It would give her comfort in the days to come.
A few days later, the MacNaughtons gathered in the outer court to say goodbye to the men from Glasgow. They had used the funeral to take a holiday from the mill and spend time with their families. The first rays slanted over the stone towers, shimmering off the trees and creating a dance of silver and shadow against the old castle walls. The weavers mounted their horses and tipped their hats. Colin, the senior tradesman, spoke for the group. “Our sympathies, to the family and especially to ye, as the widow. Ian was a fine man. Times are troubled, and he was someone we could count on. Our worries are not over, and we dinna know what the future brings. A man of yer husband’s stature and understanding will be sorely missed.”
“We are in yer debt for bringing his body home to us. I canna imagine my grandson buried on English soil.” Calum held out his hand to each man.
Alisabeth saw the pain in the men’s eyes. Ian had been a more than a supervisor. The weavers were known for being a close-knit group and his death left a broken chink in their armor. “I understand ye are hoping for representation in the English parliament. My husband was verra passionate on that subject. I wish ye luck.”
“We appreciate that.” He nodded to the south. “Now we best get moving. Looks like we’ll come across a bit of weather on our way home.”
As they spurred their horses, she put a hand out and ran after Colin. He pulled back on the reins and halted. With a racing heart, she blurted, “I may only be his widow, but I’d like to honor his passing. If there is ever anything I can do to help yer cause, ye need only ask.”
The men nodded and murmured their thanks. Colin leaned down and squeezed her shoulder. Silver lightened his dark hair at the temples, but his clear blue eyes held strength and did not reflect his age. “I will keep that in mind, lass. We thank ye kindly for the offer.”
Her thoughts went back to her last conversation with Ian.
* * *
“Why are ye insisting on finding a new overlooker for the weaving factory?” Lissie kneaded the dough, pummeling it with her fists to relieve the tension in her neck. “Let the new Lord Stanfeld find a replacement.”
“Mo chridhe, have we not had this conversation? The long trips take a toll on Granda though he’s loath to admit it. Hasn’t had his heart in it since the old earl became bedridden, and Auntie Maeve quit the visits to Glasgow.” Ian tipped her chin up with a finger. “So he’s passed the duties of the family business on to his grandsons. It’s time for Gideon and me to pick up the reins now for the clan.”
She nodded. “Do ye not think yer cousin will want more of a say?”
“Nay, an English earl wouldna dirty his hands with trade. Our families share the profits from our weaving factory with that understanding. Without his investments, the MacNaughtons wouldna have the business.” He ran a hand through his unruly red waves. “We have a responsibility to see that it’s run properly. It supports not only our clan but half the village.”
She snorted and pummeled the dough again, making him laugh.
“I’m glad that’s not my face.” He poked her in the side. “Besides, I want to take a trip to Manchester and see the weaving machines they have. Twice the production, they say. And I’ll get a better price on supplies.”
“Don’t give me excuses. I know ye too well. Ye want to hear that Henry Hunt speak.” She wiped some flour off her forehead with her sleeve. “I fear for yer safety when ye are with those radical workers.”
“We are a passive group, Lissie. No harm will come to us. The Patriotic Union in Manchester is proclaiming a peaceful assembly, and it’s been approved by the magistrate.”
Alisabeth sighed, tossed the dough into a pan, and covered it with a cloth. “And ye trust those Englishmen?” Looking up into green eyes always sparkling with humor, she gave in and smiled back. She would not part ways with angry words between them. “Fine then, off ye go. And look for a pair of long silk gloves to match my green dress, please.”
“Only if ye promise to stop doing chores in the kitchen. It pains Ma to see ye working like a servant.”
“Och, it’s not like I’m toiling over the fire or washing the cooking pots. Baking soothes my nerves.” She grinned. “And it’s better than punching someone when I’m angry.”
“Aye, and less painful too. One black eye from ye was enough.” He pulled her braid. “I was only seven but a man doesna forget such an insult.”
* * *
Alisabeth smiled at the recollection of that black eye. So many memories, so many happy times… She burrowed her hands inside the deep pockets of her skirt, caressing the silk gloves that had returned with Ian’s body. Life was so precious, and she had taken her joy for granted. Never again.
The funeral was over and most of the long distance guests finally gone. Those remaining, including Ian’s siblings and Alisabeth’s parents, had retired to their quarters above. She began picking up cups and plates, helping the housemaid to keep her hands busy and her mind blank. The empty dining room seemed unnaturally quiet after the last few days.
“We’ll move to the sitting room,” announced Peigi as she and Calum paused in the doorway. “It’s more comfortable and private for our own reminiscing.”
The three of them took the narrow stone stairs up to the second floor, where her bedchamber and several others were also located. The smaller room had been paneled and the floor covered with gleaming wood planks. It was filled with personal items rather than ancestral paintings or antiques. Miniature portraits framed in silver or delicately carved wood sat on the mantel. A large bible sat on a side table next to Calum’s chair, its leather cover faded and the binding worn from constant use. Peigi often read from it in
the evenings at her husband’s request.
An oak table with four matching chairs sat at the far end of the room, an ivory chess set ready for a match. Its polished pieces had seen dozens of games won and lost on a rainy day or winter’s evening. Thick wool rugs of red, gray, and cream, scattered about in front of furniture and the fireplace, provided a warm haven for bare or stocking feet.
Alisabeth paused at the door, realizing she might not be here this winter to enjoy the crackling fire and camaraderie of the MacNaughtons. She would never again sit on the chaise longue next to Ian, lay her head on his shoulder, and sing a ballad or listen to the haunting chords of the small pipes or fiddle.
“Bring me my tobacco, lass,” Calum called to her. “And pour us all a swallow or two of sherry.”
She smiled at that phrase. A swallow or two often led to an entire decanter. Perhaps the liquor would dispel the chill inside her.
“Ye are welcome to stay here, lass.” Calum whispered in her ear as she leaned over to hand him the leather pouch. “But if ye wish to go home when yer family leaves, we will understand.”
She had been thankful for her parents these last few days. But her mother’s sympathy had been almost suffocating. To go back with them, and be enveloped in their well-meaning pity, seemed a worse fate than her grief. Craigg Manor no longer seemed her home. She had been a child there and grown into a woman here. It would be like stepping back in time. Yet remaining at Naught Castle, she would forever be haunted by thoughts of Ian. How would she move on?
“I thank ye, Calum. The MacNaughtons have always been verra good to me.”
“Glynis may need ye for a while longer. She isna ready to let go of her son yet, and ye will give her comfort.”
“We give each other solace.” Alisabeth’s voice cracked as she poured three glasses of the amber liquid. Sharing her mother-in-law’s sorrow was preferable to enduring her family’s sympathy for now. “I’ll stay as long as I am needed.”
Calum squeezed her hand. “Ye’ll be provided for as long as ye are a widow, whether ye stay or go. Not to worry.”
She nodded, the lump in her throat blocking any response. The past few days had been long and difficult. But the nights were worse. The description of Ian’s death would replay in her mind as soon she closed her eyes. The mangled body that had returned, the description of his death—and others—had been gruesome. The men had spared no details. The nightmares returned every evening when her tired mind finally slept.
“Da! Da, I’ve a letter from Maeve.” Ian’s ma came running into the room, waving an envelope. She broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. A hand ran through her thick auburn waves as her eyes scanned the thick vellum. She began to read.
* * *
My dearest Glynis,
There are no words to heal a mother’s broken heart. I will not try to write empty condolences. Instead I am coming home. I want to wrap my arms around my sister, feel her sorrow, and let it fall upon my own shoulders. We will cry together and then begin the mending. I will miss the funeral but shall be there in spirit. God keep the MacNaughtons safe until I arrive.
With all my love,
Maeve
* * *
Glynis sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. Alisabeth gently removed the letter from her grasp as the tears fell.
“It will be good for yer soul to see Maeve again. It’s been three years since our last visit to Glasgow and almost thirty years since she’s returned to her home.” Peigi sat next to her daughter, stroking her hair.
“Stanfeld wasn’t up to the travel those last few years. And she wouldna leave his side.”
“She willna be breaking her promise.” Glynis sniffed. “She told me she couldna return to the Highlands while he still had breath. Now the man is dead, she is free.”
“Hush, love. Her husband dinna understand us, but he was a good man. His money provided us the opportunity to prosper. And prosper we have.” Peigi hugged her youngest daughter. “Maeve is coming home. Let us celebrate what we can in this dark time, hmm?”
The family all nodded in agreement. The tick of the clock and an occasional sniffle from Glynis were the only sounds for several moments.
“I wonder if she will bring my grandson? He looked more like me each summer.” Calum took his pipe from the small table beside him. He leaned over and tapped it against the hearth, the cold ashes spilling into the burning peat embers. Settling back into his stuffed wingback chair, he filled the bowl with tobacco. “And has he inherited anything else from the MacNaughtons?”
Peigi and Calum’s gaze met and held. Their expressions were sober, as if they shared some long ago secret. A thread of worry needled down Alisabeth’s spine. Why did she have a feeling this visit was more than what it seemed?
Chapter 3
“Truth is always strange, stranger than fiction.”
—Lord Byron
Late August, 1819
London, England
“Damnation!” cursed the Viscount Pendleton as the last card sprang up from the small taro machine. “I’ve lost enough for one night.”
Gideon laughed at Nathaniel. He had joined his long-time friend at White’s. It was his last night in London, and he wanted to relax a bit and catch up on any personal or political news. “You realize this is nothing but a sham, an amusement of chance? You could just as easily toss that pile at a willing wench and get more for your coin. Stick with those games that use strategy and employ a player’s abilities and shrewd observational skills.”
“So sayeth the ever-rational Earl of Stanfeld. I agree, but you must admit I tend to be a deuced lucky corinthian.”
“Not tonight.”
“And you, my friend, always seem to do well when you’re in the mood to play. In fact, I can’t ever remember you losing. It’s almost as if you can see your opponents’ cards.”
“Nonsense, I’m just an excellent judge of character and have a sense whether a man is bluffing.” He slapped Nathaniel on the back. “What do you say we go collect a decanter of the finest brandy and gamble on who’s left standing at the end of the night?”
Pendleton chuckled. “I remember the days when I might have easily lost that wager too.”
“And I don’t think your Eliza would appreciate a sodden husband at this particular time.” Gideon clapped him on the back. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
The viscount grinned. “As if I don’t have my hands full already with that precocious three year old. But at least Althea’s given me practice for my firstborn. She has a ridiculous amount of energy and lack of attention.”
The widowed Lady Eliza had a daughter from her previous marriage. Gideon wondered if he would have been as generous and able to accept another man’s child.
“I haven’t dealt with many children, but I do believe most of them are on the wiggly side.” He wondered what his sister Etta’s child would be like.
They settled into chairs in front of a bow window while Gideon ordered refreshments. As they waited, they remarked on the carriages driving past or pedestrians they recognized—mostly male—on their way to another gaming hell or gentlemen’s club on St. James. A tray arrived with two crystal snifters and a decanter of golden liquor.
“Terrible shame up in Manchester, eh?” Pendleton asked once the brandy was poured.
“Manchester?” Apprehension stirred in his belly.
“The riot. Parliament started this mess, too busy keeping their own pockets filled and ignoring the political unrest. The merchants are calling for equal representation in cities like Manchester. But those same merchants won’t provide fair wages for the skilled artisans or factory workers. The tariffs on grain imports have kept the prices high, which benefits the landowners, but the masses need to eat.
“Too many taxes and the lower classes take the brunt of it,” agreed Gideon.
Pendleton threw back his glass of brandy. “A peaceful crowd at a gathering to listen to a speech on passive reform—women and chi
ldren were there, mind you. The bloody Tories will drive the working class from reform to revolt if they don’t keep their paranoia under control.”
Gideon’s stomach clenched. “Tell me more, I’m not sure I heard the entire story.” To his shock, he had heard most of it. A few days earlier in his own library. As Pendleton recalled the facts, a pounding began in his head. His mother’s dream had been uncomfortably accurate. But how?
“I read the details in the Times just this morning. Calling it the Peterloo Massacre since it happened at St. Peter’s Fields. At least twenty dead and hundreds injured. I’m sure infection will take more and increase the death toll,” concluded Pendleton.
Lost in his thoughts, battling a now queasy stomach, Gideon missed the rest of the summary. Then a fresh brandy was put in his hand.
“So Stanfeld, what is this I hear about you going to Scotland?”
Gideon pulled his mind from the confusing web now clouding his brain. He’d figure it out later. There had to be an explanation. “My mother is insisting she returns home for a month. Since I need to inspect the mill in Glasgow, I’ve decided to extend the trip to Naught Castle.”
“The Highlands, then?” Pendleton whistled then held a hand to his ear. “I can hear your father through Heaven’s Gate, scratching your name in his black books.”
“It’s the least I can do for Mama after this past year of mourning. And as I said, I have business across the border anyway.”
“My wife’s mother was a Scot. Quite a beauty at one time.” Pendleton’s lips turned up in amusement. “Perhaps you’ll find a diamond of the first water hiding in the heather.”
Without thought, Gideon pulled at his cravat, happy to be on another subject. “That’s my mother’s hope. She’s started a list.”
His friend groaned in sympathy. “I’ve been there, my friend. My condolences.”
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