by Regan Walker
Wrapping his arms around his greatcoat to hold in his body’s heat, Nash waited with Robbie on the deck, watching the Ormonds and Lady Claremont embrace their friends in happy reunion.
In front of him lay a snow-covered shipyard with three ships tied up at the dock. Beyond the ships were several large buildings he assumed were the shops. The name “William Stephen and Sons” in tall blue letters stretched across the sign on the building directly ahead of him, suggested it was the company’s headquarters. In the distance on the small hill, a sprawling estate was set against trees, smoke curling up from its many chimneys.
Nash had been told William Stephen was a successful shipbuilder, supplying the government and merchants with schooners and brigs. Here was the proof.
Robbie leaned in close. “I assume the tall man with the auburn hair is William and the woman with black hair next to him is his wife, Lady Emily, but who is that beauty with the fiery red hair standing next to Lady Emily?”
The girl had caught Nash’s eye, too, her flame-colored hair blowing free from her blue plaid shawl draped loosely over her head. “She might be William’s sister,” he surmised. “I see a resemblance.” Taller than William’s wife and slender, the young woman had a proud look about her. He wondered if she resented so many English descending upon her to celebrate Christmas.
Their eldest brother Nick crossed the deck to where Nash stood with Robbie. “Time to meet our hosts.”
Nick returned to his wife and guided Tara toward the opening in the rail where the gangplank stood waiting. Martin and Kit fell into step behind them.
Tucking his woolen scarf up around his neck, Nash shared a glance with Robbie. “Let’s hope the brandy they serve is warm.”
Robbie grinned. “I’ll pour.”
At the end of the gangway, Nash waited behind his older brothers and their wives until it was his and Robbie’s turn to meet their host. With Robbie at his side, he shook William Stephen’s hand and bowed to Stephen’s wife Emily.
Nash was the first to arrive in front of the redhead Emily had introduced as William’s sister Aileen. She was more than a little attractive. Her copper-colored hair framed fair skin and eyes that were deep pools of cinnamon, sparks shining from their depths. She had a stubborn chin, but any thought of her being a troublesome lass ended when he glimpsed the sprinkling of freckles on her upturned nose. Finding his voice, he doffed his hat. “Miss Stephen, I’m pleased to meet you.”
“And I,” Robbie said, bumping Nash as he tipped his hat, his smile wide. “Are all women in Scotland so… beautiful?”
Nash wanted to kick his brother when the girl raised her brows and turned her head to her sister-in-law. Growing up around the shipbuilding industry and rough men, she had probably heard such flattery many times before. He was certain the impression left by Robbie’s words was not what he had intended.
Emily smiled. “Of course not, Mr. Powell. Ailie is special.”
Robbie glanced at the girl, an avid gleam in his eye. “I can see that.”
“I’m not speaking only about her appearance,” said Emily. “But you will discover for yourself my meaning during your stay with us.”
Nash and his twin had often competed as children and, once they were in their twenties, the competition had expanded to include women. Their methods might vary but they shared the same goal of winning the ladies’ affections. Now in their thirties, the rivalry could, at times, be intense.
William slipped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Shall we return to the house and the fire, Leannan?”
“Oh yes, let’s. There’s just enough time for our guests to have a warm brandy or a cup of hot tea and get settled in their bedchambers before we are called to dinner.”
Nash shot Robbie a satisfied smile at the thought of a warm brandy, then watched with dismay as the lovely Aileen Stephen flounced off with Lord Ormond and his wife, leaving Nash and Robbie to fall into step behind the others as they trudged up the path to the great house above the shipyard.
Halfway there, William turned to address them. “While we share a warm drink in the parlor, the servants will see your chests to your chambers. No need to change for dinner unless you wish it. In Arbroath, we often dine informally.”
Ailie stood in the entry hall, waiting for Emily to descend the stairs having just returned from seeing her friend settled.
“Is the countess pleased with her bedchamber?”
“Oh yes, Muriel is quite content. I told her a cup of hot tea and shortbread would soon be delivered.”
Earlier, the other guests had warmed themselves in the parlor and then followed Will and their housekeeper, Mrs. Banks, up the stairs to their bedchambers. The time spent in the parlor had allowed Ailie to get a better look at the twin Powell brothers. She was now certain one of them was the man from her dream.
’Tis the same face.
They were different in appearance from their other brothers. All the Powell men had dark hair, but the twins’ hair was curlier and more streaked by the sun. Their eyes were hazel, rimmed with green and pierced with shards of gold.
Each the identical image of the other.
Which one had appeared to her? And why? The second sight the Ramsay women possessed could often be vague, but the elusive images were always significant, portenders of the future, harbingers of danger, or both.
It had been a dream that warned her of Will’s capture by the French and another that gave her hope for his release. The dream she treasured most had given her the design of a schooner she hoped one day to see built in Arbroath.
“Come with me, Ailie,” Emily urged as she hurried toward the countess’ cook, who had been patiently waiting to one side. “I’m about to introduce Mrs. Platt to Martha. Since Mrs. Banks is occupied with our guests and the new maids, I may need your help to smooth ruffled feathers.”
“I am happy to help if I can.” She followed her sister-in-law and the English cook to the large kitchen at the back of the house. Beyond the kitchen garden was the orangery William had added.
With a trembling voice, Mrs. Platt said to Emily, “I understand my presence in your cook’s kitchen may be unwelcome, my lady, but Lady Claremont thought I could assist with the Christmas dinner.”
“And you shall,” Emily assured her, linking the cook’s arm with her own. “It just might take a bit of persuading.” Glancing at Ailie, she added, “I’ve asked my sister-in-law to come with us. Our cook likes her.”
Ailie mentally prepared herself for the encounter with Martha McBride. In her late thirties, Martha was a good cook but cantankerous as the day was long. In the kitchen, she reigned supreme, supervising assistants and scullery maids. Martha had no love for the English, much less an English cook who might ken more than she did about cooking for the Stephen household.
It had taken years for Ailie to gain the woman’s trust. Emily, on the other hand, had been accorded the respect due the master’s wife when she arrived. Even so, when Emily had suggested a few English dishes be served, Martha had been reluctant to agree. She only acceded to her new mistress’ requests when Emily enlarged the kitchen garden and later began growing herbs and vegetables in the orangery.
Emily let go of Mrs. Platt’s arm to enter the kitchen first. “Martha,” she addressed the cook, who was facing away from them, stirring the contents of a pot over the hearth fire.
Two kitchen maids, busy chopping vegetables, looked up from their work.
Save for the orangery, on a cold winter’s day the kitchen was the warmest room in the house, the fire kept going at all times and the stove nearly so. Ailie could often be found there in afternoons pinching a freshly baked tart.
The cook turned, tucking stray dark hairs into her mobcap as she faced her mistress. “Aye, Mistress?”
“Martha, I want you to meet someone.” Emily stepped cautiously toward the cook, as one might approach a dog known to bite. “Do you remember me telling you that, along with our friends from London, Lady Claremont would be bringing he
r cook?”
“Aye.” Martha slowly nodded as if trying to postpone the inevitable. Turning to one of her assistants, she gestured to the pot she’d been stirring and, wiping her hands on her apron, walked toward them.
“Well, she is here,” said Emily. “Ailie and I want you to meet Mrs. Platt, who has sailed from London at Lady Claremont’s request to help with the Christmas feast. I asked that she bring her recipes and all she would need. The crew should bring the crate in soon.”
Ailie held her breath, waiting to see if Martha would object. The scrutinizing gaze Martha gave Mrs. Platt did not bespeak a welcome.
Emily made the introductions. To support her, Ailie chimed in, “Everyone is looking forward to the traditional English feast.”
Martha’s face took on a surprised expression. She knew Ailie didn’t give a whit about the English observance of Christmas, but Ailie paid her no mind. She remembered William’s reminder that the English were their invited guests. In Scotland, hospitality was everything.
Undaunted, Emily faced the cook. “Mr. Stephen and I enjoyed our Christmas with some of these same friends last year and he quite liked the roast goose and Christmas pudding.”
Hands on her ample hips, Martha frowned. “What about the dishes the master likes at the holidays?”
Emily smiled sweetly. “Oh, we shall have those, too. William tells me there will be cock-a-leekie soup, haggis with tatties, steak pie, roast game and salmon. And the Scottish desserts, too.”
“The master’s favorite treat is cranachan,” put in Martha.
“Yes, well, I look forward to that myself,” said Emily. “You shall preside over the menus as always, Martha, but for the Christmas dinner, I ask you to consult with Mrs. Platt.”
Tension hung in the room like a schoolteacher’s rebuke.
Casting her gaze about the kitchen, Mrs. Platt offered a compliment Ailie thought quite diplomatic. “I can see you run an efficient kitchen, Miss McBride.”
That was certainly true, thought Ailie. On the side of the kitchen opposite the windows looking out on the garden, William had one of the carpenters build cabinets painted a light gray. Open shelves held plates, pans and copperware, everything neatly in its place.
Martha smiled despite herself. She did manage well her kingdom.
The smile must have encouraged Mrs. Platt. “It will be my pleasure to assist you in any way I can.” The compliment from an experienced cook years older than Martha could only be termed gracious.
Feathers smoothed, Martha inquired as to whether Mrs. Platt would like to have a chat and stay for tea. Ailie and Emily shared a look of relief.
The kitchen was large enough to accommodate Martha’s invitation. In the center of the room, a long oak worktable with bench seats provided ample room for the servants to dine.
Martha glanced at Emily. “With your permission, Mistress, after our tea, I can show Mrs. Platt to her room.”
“That would be lovely, Martha,” said Emily, pleased. “And would you also have one of the servants take tea and shortbread up to Lady Claremont? She is in the chamber across from Ailie’s.”
“Aye, Mistress. Immediately.”
“Wonderful,” said Emily turning toward Ailie, “Now, I must consult Mrs. Banks about our guests.”
“And I must see to the dogs.”
Chapter 4
Robbie relaxed on his bed, idly watching his brother set out the books he had brought from London, wondering why Nash had done so. “You might have left the books behind. I’m certain William Stephen keeps a good library for Scotland’s long winters.”
“Perhaps, but he may not have these.” Nash turned from his books to face Robbie. “Now that you mention it, we will need William’s library for the times when one of us hies off to the village for news of Kinloch while the other remains behind. How’s your Scottish brogue?”
“Miserable,” returned Robbie. “Yours has always been better.”
“’Tis merely a matter of practice. Tonight might be a good time for you to do just that since we’re in the home of Scots.”
Robbie thought of the voices he had heard since their arrival. “Emily’s speech is as English as our own and William has only a faint brogue. Captain Anderson has a deep accent, but he may not be at dinner. Besides, I’d rather talk to William’s pretty sister even if her brogue is not so pronounced.” He gave Nash a sidelong glance, making a mental note of his brother’s frown at Robbie’s interest in Aileen Stephen.
Hearing no response from Nash, Robbie said, “Are you ready to join the others? We don’t want to be late.”
“Almost ready.” Nash crossed the chamber to the chest at the foot of the bed he had claimed as his. “William told us not to change, but I want to wear a different tailcoat. As you have on a brown one, I’ll wear dark green.”
“We’ll need to switch coats in the days to come if we’re to assume each other’s identity,” Robbie reminded him. This they had done many times. Coupled with their ability to ape each other’s gestures and expressions, they could be virtually interchangeable.
Nash pulled on the green tailcoat. “Whichever of us is in the village will have to don the locals’ attire.”
“I wonder how Kinloch might be dressed,” Robbie mused. “He’s a gentleman but he’ll not be wearing a gentleman’s clothing, will he?”
Nash straightened his cravat. “I doubt it. Wouldn’t he be more likely to appear as a farmer, a sailor or a fisherman? All are plentiful in Arbroath, I would think.”
They began to descend the stairs just as Aileen Stephen came through the front door, her cheeks rosy from the cold. She let her tartan scarf fall to her shoulders, revealing a bounty of bright red hair. A tempting picture to be sure.
Two great black and tan dogs bounded in after her.
“Why, hello,” said Robbie, giving her one of his sincerest smiles. Beside him, Nash tensed, none too pleased at Robbie’s initiative.
His brother smiled at the girl. “What dogs are these?”
She looked up at them, her dogs wagging their long tails, their paws on the steps sniffing at Robbie’s feet. “Goodness and Mercy, a gift from the Duke of Gordon. He raises them on his estate in Moray to the north.”
Robbie stepped down to the entry hall’s stone floor and patted the head of the closest dog, a friendly sort, then returned his attention to the girl.
Nash alighted from the last stair to scratch one of the dogs behind the ear. “How ever did you come up with those names, Miss Stephen?”
“You may call me Ailie. Most everyone here does. You are Robbie and Nash?”
“I am Robbie and this is my brother, Nash,” said Robbie, gesturing first to himself and then to his twin.
Her beautiful face lifted in a one-sided grin as she glanced between them. “’Twill be difficult telling you apart. As for the names of my dogs, do ye nae ken yer Scriptures?”
Robbie exchanged a look with his brother. Neither, he was certain, had a clue as to her meaning, yet she had spoken in the way of the Scots, intentionally deepening her accent. Perhaps she meant to suggest Englishmen might be ignorant of the Good Book’s teachings.
“The twenty-third Psalm ends,” she recited, “‘Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life…’ aye?”
“Clever,” said Nash. “I won’t be forgetting their names any time soon.” From the admiring look Nash gave the girl, Robbie surmised his twin wouldn’t be forgetting her either.
Robbie returned his attention to the large lean dogs he decided were setters, but not the black and white speckled ones he was used to. These two were mostly black with small bits of copper and white trim. “I can scarce see a difference between them.”
Her brows lifted. “This from two brothers who are made from the same mold? Really, ’tis easy to tell them apart. Goodness is the male and Mercy is the female.”
“My brother’s a bit slow,” muttered Nash.
Robbie shot Nash a look of annoyance. “Seems I recall you ac
cusing me of being too fast, Brother.”
Nash coughed into his hand. “I was speaking of understanding just now, not your manner of living.” Then to Ailie, “Please excuse my brother.”
“I always make excuses for English rakes,” she said matter-of-factly.
Robbie sputtered. Beside him, Nash appeared bemused.
“If you’re looking for the others, I believe they are in the parlor. Just there.” She gestured to a set of double doors. “I will join you shortly.”
Robbie watched as she proceeded to a door to the right of the stairs, the dogs following on her heels, as the psalm suggested they would.
He turned toward the parlor. “I believe we have been dismissed.” Then, in a low voice, “Now there’s a tempting armful and, for a green girl, most interesting. A sharp tongue, perhaps, but interesting nonetheless.”
“She’s not one of your ‘women on the town’,” said Nash, looking over his shoulder as Aileen Stephen and her dogs disappeared through the door. “She’s a spirited innocent. I find her… enchanting.”
Ailie eyed the bottom of her dress, soiled from mucking about with the dogs. She hoped the Powell twins had been so interested in her setters they had failed to notice. Ah, well, she would make up for it by looking her best for dinner.
“Rhona, what do you think of this gown?” Ailie held up the blue silk gown she’d taken from the clothes press. It was one of her nicest gowns, one she had worn to visit her parents in Aberdeen to convince them she hadn’t forgotten all they insisted she learn about being a lady.
When Ailie joined Will five years ago, he had insisted she have a lady’s maid. A few years older than Ailie, Rhona came from a well thought of Arbroath family, and her older brother worked as a supervisor in the shipyard. Rhona had become more friend than servant. Ailie valued her opinion.
Rhona’s brown eyes narrowed as she studied the gown. “’Tis a fine choice, Mistress. It reminds me of bluebell flowers. And if ye like, I can arrange yer hair with the sides pinned back.”
