by Regan Walker
They were just finishing their game when the four who had ventured into the snow returned. At the door to the library, Ailie announced, “We’re back with the greenery. Luncheon will be served shortly in the dining room,” then disappeared as quickly as she had come.
Was he imagining things or did she appear overly happy, her face lit with some unexplained joy? Faith! What had transpired in the woods?
George Kinloch set his tankard on the marred table and peered through the smoke hanging in the air of St Thomas Tavern to glimpse the hideous picture hanging above the bar. The face of the old saint was twisted into a grimace but whether it was in distaste or horror George could not say.
Would he meet his end like Thomas à Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury, martyred for his defiance of the English Crown? The charge of sedition hanging over his head suggested as much. Still, he did not regret accepting the invitation to speak in Dundee when it had come. The Crown’s actions in Manchester and the wrongs against the poor workers had to be redressed.
A well-organized, self-disciplined man, the father of seven grown children, George had always tried to live a calm, orderly life. When he received the shocking news he had been charged with sedition, he had hurried to Edinburgh to meet with his solicitor. There, they worked up a list of relevant details for the advocates who would conduct the defense.
All to no avail.
From his friends, he had learned that no defense would be successful, that the government in London had decided he would be convicted and sentenced to transportation to Botany Bay. It was then George had written his dear wife Helen telling her he must flee. And France was the natural choice of destinations.
The men sitting around George grumbled about the weavers’ discontent and talked of the uprising that would surely come to Glasgow. George wanted no part of it. God knew the weavers had cause, but he feared any grand display would merely provide an excuse for another massacre by the Crown’s soldiers.
He wanted more for the people of Scotland. He sought reform, not revolution. He was, after all, the Justice of the Peace for the County of Perth. Still, he could not forget his time in France that had made him aware of the plight of the poor who had no voice and often no bread.
With conditions as bad as they were in Britain, why continue a tax that supported the war against Napoleon? It was not unlike the American colonists’ complaints that had led to their rebellion: taxation without representation.
George was confident someday the needed reform would come to his own country, but he would have to leave now if he were to live to see that day.
He reflected again on the archbishop who had defied a king. Fearing for his life, Becket, too, had sought refuge in France. His mistake had been returning to England to be murdered at the king’s pleasure. Hopefully, George could avoid such a fate. That he had to place himself in the hands of brutal men he considered ruffians to assure his escape could not be avoided. The men who guarded him got things done and protected his life.
“Did you procure passage for me and my cousin?” he asked the gruff man whom he had to thank for helping him escape to Arbroath.
“Aye, ye’re sailin’ on the Panmure on the twenty-sixth.”
George nodded. The twenty-sixth, after the trial in Edinburgh. By then, he would have forfeited bail and been declared an outlaw.
Until he sailed, he would have to bide his time with St Thomas’ good ale and be thankful for the rough men who guarded his person. It wasn’t as if he had a choice.
Called to luncheon, everyone found a seat at the dining table. Nash pulled out a chair for Ailie and she gracefully subsided into it. To his chagrin, Robbie claimed the chair on her other side. Nash comforted himself in the knowledge she had earlier returned his kiss and had stopped him when he would have begged her forgiveness for the liberties he’d taken.
He was, he trusted, on the way to winning her heart.
The footman ladled soup into his bowl. Nash stared down at the thick white broth. The steam rising from the surface had a decidedly fishy smell but the appearance of the soup was not unappetizing. Pieces of what looked like fish, small chunks of potato and bits of dark green floated in the broth. Tentatively, he dipped in his spoon, then thought to inquire, “Is there a name for this soup?”
Ailie turned from her own bowl. “’Tis another of our dishes. Cullen Skink.”
He paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “What?”
Ailie shook her head. “Really, Nash, ’tis just haddie stew.”
“Is that the smoked fish you eat at breakfast?” he asked, appalled.
Muriel, sitting beside Emily, narrowed her eyes on her bowl. “Are those pieces of green I detect by any chance kale?”
William laughed. “No kale. Shallot tops.”
Muriel dipped her spoon into the fish stew. “I am greatly relieved.”
Robbie, obviously proud of his just finished bowl, urged Nash on. “Try it. It’s very good. We might have to take some of the smoked haddock back to London. You know how Mother loves to dabble in Father’s galley and it would keep well at sea.”
“In Baltimore,” said Tara, “we would call this fish chowder, but our fish would not be smoked and we’d add salt pork and parsley, sweet marjoram, savory and thyme. I agree with Robbie, Nick. It’s good. We should take some back to London, too.”
Nash, thinking himself quite brave, brought the spoon to his mouth and tasted, surprised to find he liked the salty fish combined with the sweet milk, potatoes and shallots. “Actually, I find it rather tasty, perfect for warming one’s insides on a cold day.” He smiled at Ailie. “You see? I can learn to like your food.”
For some odd reason, that caused Ailie to blush, which made the freckles scattered over her nose stand out. He thought the effect quite charming.
Across the table, Muriel made a noise that sounded suspiciously like “Humph”.
After luncheon, they retired to the parlor to sample Mrs. Platt’s wassail. Nash had a fondness for the drink that tasted of apples, cinnamon and cloves. It reminded him that Christmas was a little less than a week away.
Remembering Robbie’s admonition, he thought perhaps he should go to town but, later, when the temperature dropped, he decided against it. Thus, he was in the parlor with the others, gathered for dinner, when the unexpected visitor arrived.
Chapter 10
“Guid eve’nin’ tae ye!”
At the sound of the familiar voice, Ailie turned. “Grandfather!”
Making her excuses to Muriel, Ailie hastened to meet him at the parlor door. The footman must have taken his coat and cap, leaving him in his dark blue woolen jacket, knitted vest and trousers. A scarf of the same blue was tied around his neck almost, but not quite, like a cravat. Beneath his silver hair, strong features and blue eyes, he sported a well-trimmed beard.
She kissed his leathery cheek that smelled of the sea and smoke, reminding her of his days at sea as a fisherman and of his current occupation. “You must come warm yourself by the fire, Grandfather, and then I will introduce you to our guests.”
She ushered him to the fireplace, proudly announcing to the others, “Grandfather Ramsay has paid us an impromptu visit. Once he warms up a bit, I will properly introduce you.”
Their guests parted to allow them to pass, curious gazes and smiles following them across the room. When they reached the countess, Ailie’s grandfather paused to give Muriel a long studying perusal before continuing on.
They reached the fireplace just as one of the footmen came to add a log to the fire.
“Would you like something to drink?” Ailie knew the answer before asking. Most of their guests were drinking wassail, but her grandfather would want a fisherman’s drink.
“Ale’d be guid.”
The footman nodded to Ailie and went to fetch the drink.
Her grandfather stretched his weathered hands toward the flames. “It’s fair jeelit outside. Cauld enough tae freeze kelpies.”
Ailie was amused at hi
s mention of the mythical water spirit. “’Tis been freezing cold all day, Grandfather, and it’s worse now that the sun has set. I’m delighted to see you but why ever did you come out in such weather?”
Ailie’s brother appeared beside her. “Aye, is all well?”
The footman returned, handing her grandfather the ale.
“Weel,” began her grandfather, taking a long draw on his drink, “when ye sent word a band o’ Sassenachs were comin’ tae Stonehaven fer Hogmanay, I had tae see ’em fer meself. A mate o’ mine was sailin’ this way so I hopped aboard.”
Wondering where they would put him, Ailie asked, “How long will you be able to stay?”
“I hae tae leave in the mornin’ when my mate returns.”
“One night,” she murmured under her breath, exchanging a glance with Will.
“All the bedchambers are taken,” explained Will. “Even the servants have had to double up. But you can have my study. You remember, it’s the room on the other side of the entry hall just before you reach the library. The large sofa will make for a comfortable bed and you’ll not be disturbed.”
“’Twill do me jus’ fine. I’ve slept on fishin’ boats fer most o’ me life, ye ken.”
Angus Ramsay, now a widower, once owned his own fishing boats, but when he gave up the sea, he sold them and went into business in Stonehaven smoke-drying haddock. He was the reason they never lacked for smoked haddies. Now in his sixties, Ailie thought him quite distinguished looking, his weathered face, tanned and lined from so many years in the sun, speaking of his character.
“Well then,” said Ailie, “if you’re sufficiently warmed, you’d best meet our guests and join us for dinner.”
Her grandfather eyed Muriel. “I’d like tae meet her first.”
Will rolled his eyes. “I leave that to you, Ailie. I’ll see about preparing the study. And, Grandfather, after you’ve met the others, you must greet Emily.”
“Aye, I’m fond o’ the heather-eyed lass, soon tae be the mother o’ me new gran’bairn.”
Resigned to her role as interpreter, when Will left them for Emily, Ailie looped her arm through her grandfather’s and sallied forth to introduce him. “Now behave,” she said, leaning close to his ear. “You’re about to meet a countess of great renown of whom Will and I are quite fond, a marquess and his marchioness, the daughter of an earl and four shipmasters.”
“Unless one o’ them is Robert the Bruce, I’ll nae be swept off me feet.”
Ailie grinned, unsurprised that her grandfather would not be impressed by titles of British nobility. He saved his ardent passion for Scotland’s heroes. She stopped in front of the countess. “Muriel, may I introduce you to Angus Ramsay of Stonehaven, my maternal grandfather?”
Muriel nodded and graciously offered her hand.
Having frequently been a guest in their father’s home in Aberdeen, Angus Ramsay was not unmindful of the ways of the gentry. With more polish than Ailie might have expected given his station, her grandfather smiled at Muriel and bowed over her hand.
“Muriel is the Countess of Claremont, Grandfather, but our guests have decided to use given names for their stay with us, so I suspect she will allow you, for the now, to address her as ‘Muriel’.”
“Here’s tae ye, a grand fair lady, Muriel.”
Muriel’s hand went to her quizzing glass but she did not raise it, perhaps sensing that Ailie’s grandfather would have found it highly amusing and very English. But, as a lady, she did not fail to show her gratitude. “Most kind of you, sir.”
After that, the introductions proceeded smoothly.
According to Will, Hugh, while a marquess, had friends in many walks of life and could be unassuming. Mary, his gracious wife, accepted Ailie’s grandfather and he her. After making the introduction, as they walked away, Ailie’s grandfather said, “She has the look o’ a green-eyed sea witch. I ’spect her husband’s under her spell.”
Ailie was bemused by her grandfather’s ready acceptance of the fishermen’s folklore. “From what I have seen, you’re not far from the truth.”
Her grandfather took to Tara as soon as he discovered Nick’s wife was an American of Scots-Irish blood. “One o’ us!”
Nick told him that Tara sailed as often as she could. “My Irish cook is a great keeper of the fairy lore, Mr. Ramsay, and believes my wife is the leanan sídhe, a fairy of terrible power.” Nick added a grimace to go with the description.
Nick and Tara shared a chuckle, but Ailie’s grandfather just smiled, accepting fully Tara’s mythical origin. In Scotland, the glens had always produced legends of fairies, old clan tales, forebodings and superstitions. They were as much believed as the Scriptures.
When Ailie introduced her grandfather to Martin’s wife, Kit expressed a desire to sketch him. “I’m doing sketches of everyone this holiday, Mr. Ramsay,” she told him. “You have such an interesting face, I hope you will allow me to draw a likeness of you.”
“I shall put meself at yer disposal,” he said with a wink at Martin, who obviously knew the effect his wife had on older men.
They arrived in front of the twin Powell brothers and Ailie’s grandfather paused. “My oath! ’Tis two fish from the same barrel.”
Nash and Robbie smiled good-naturedly. Ailie knew they had heard such remarks many times, yet they were kind to her grandfather, which pleased her.
Ailie introduced them, putting the correct name to each twin, not only because of the clothes Nash wore but because of the unseen connection that now existed between them. When she met his penetrating gaze, she recognized him.
Her grandfather looked up at Robbie. “Rabbie,” he said, pronouncing Robbie’s name in the Scots fashion. “’Tis the name o’ the Bard o’ Ayrshire. Ye’re unwed, aye?”
“Both of us,” put in Nash, shooting Ailie a surprisingly bold look.
Before her grandfather could say more and embarrass her completely, Ailie excused herself and rushed him away. “Really, Grandfather.”
“Weel, ’tis time ye find a man, and that one’s named Rabbie.” To that, Ailie had no intention of replying. Her grandfather was worse than Will.
She led her grandfather to where Emily and Will stood talking with a footman.
“Guid tae see ye, dear Emily.”
“You, too, Angus.” Emily kissed him on his cheek. “I have requested another chair be added to the dining table. It will be a snug fit but I’m sure we will all do just fine.”
“I don’t think our guests will mind, Leannan,” said Will. “They are getting along splendidly.”
“As long as ye put me next tae Muriel,” said Grandfather Ramsay, “sittin’ close will nae fash me.”
Will gave Ailie a side-glance, his brows drawing together.
“Don’t ask,” she said.
At dinner, her grandfather—now addressed as “Angus” by all their guests—was quick to claim the chair next to Muriel who sat in her usual place adjacent to Will. Since the rest of them took the seats they’d had at their first dinner, that left Ailie between Nash and Robbie but with Angus squeezed in next to Muriel. Snug indeed.
After the barley soup and a fish course of baked cod in cream sauce with leeks, Will announced, “In honor of our English guests, we’re having roast beef tonight.”
Exclamations of delight sounded around the table.
“We English do like our roast beef,” said Robbie. He winked at Ailie. “And I wouldn’t turn away a slice of cheddar cheese.”
“I do believe there is cheddar cheese for you,” Emily assured him. “We can thank Muriel for her cook’s good services.”
“Mrs. Platt is a jewel,” said Muriel.
As the footmen served the roast beef, Ailie’s grandfather turned to the countess. “Ye brought yer cook?”
“Of course, my good man. If we’re to have a fine Christmas dinner it was necessary.”
Ailie’s grandfather shot a look of incredulity at Will. “Ye’re celebratin’ the Sassenach Yule?”
; Will leaned toward him. “Grandfather, we have English guests who have come to celebrate Christmastide. We’re not telling the Parish Kirk minister. I learned to love Christmas when I was in England and I promised Emily we could celebrate the holiday as she always did before she married me.”
“Aye, weel if ’tis Emily’s wish, I willna object,” he said sheepishly.
Ailie had always known a lady could turn her grandfather from his intended course. Her own grandmother had managed to wrap him about her pinkie.
“William,” said Angus, “I fergot tae tell ye, I brought some o’ today’s smoked haddies and left them with yer man at the door.” Ailie smiled to herself. “Yer man at the door” was their grandfather’s name for their new butler.
“Very generous, Grandfather,” said Will.
Ailie darted a look at Nash. “Just think, smoked haddies for breakfast.”
“Eggs and scones for me,” he muttered under his breath.
Ailie jabbed him in the ribs. As close as they were, it was easily done.
“I look forward to the haddies, myself,” said Robbie, loud enough for Angus to hear. “How good of you to bring them.”
“Aye, ’tis me business, ye ken.”
A conversation then ensued among their guests about the business of smoking fish, her grandfather explaining he followed the Norse tradition of smoking the fish over an open fire.
“The Norse left their imprint on this part of Scotland,” she said. “We keep many of their traditions.”
Loving her grandfather as she did, the smell of the smoked fish brought back wonderful memories of Ailie’s summers spent in Stonehaven as a young girl, when she’d spent hours talking to her grandfather as he carefully tended his smoking fish.
Their guests were probably being kind not to remark on the faint odor of fish and smoke that lingered about her grandfather, as much a part of him as the pungent shag tobacco he smoked in his pipe. She had never stopped to consider him from someone else’s viewpoint—from that of London aristocrats and gentry, who were more accustomed to a drawing room than a fishing boat. But as she looked around the table at their guests, she saw only attentive interest and approval as he described his work. Inside, she relaxed. They like him for himself, she realized, just as I do. And she liked their guests all the better for it.
