by Regan Walker
Robbie sat up. “I remind you, Brother, Kinloch might have been arrested in Dundee, but the charge against him came from London. Our lot has never been to question Sidmouth.”
“Manchester changed that for me, Robbie. None but the basest of cowards would attack unarmed men, women and children. I cannot justify the deaths on St Peter’s Field, nor can I excuse the government’s failure to dispense justice after.” Fury rose in his chest as he remembered that day. He shook his head. “No, I cannot.”
Robbie cast him a worrisome glance. “I can see you mean to be stubborn. Very well, we shall celebrate Christmas and deal with Kinloch on Boxing Day.”
Good Lord. Nash had forgotten entirely the Panmure would sail on that holiday, unobserved by the Scots.
“You do recall that the twenty-sixth is Boxing Day?”
“I didn’t until you mentioned it, but now that I think of it, when I first learned the Panmure’s captain meant to sail on the twenty-sixth, the date sounded familiar. ’Tis the day when Mother gives gifts to the servants.”
Ailie woke from the dream, her chest heaving. This time, she did not have to call back the images, for they were terrifying and indelibly stamped in her mind. One of the Powell twins lay on the ground, his eyes closed and his skin pale as a ghost, as blood gushed from his head.
Was the gruesome specter a prophetic sign foretelling of one twin’s death? Her mind shouted, “No!” If the man were Nash, she could not bear his loss. And, if Robbie, Nash would never be the same, having lost part of himself.
She sprang from her bed, determined to banish her rising dread. Perhaps the dream merely reflected an irrational fear after the avalanche. But she knew it was not so.
Lighting a candle to add to that of the fire burning steadily, she went about her morning toilette, dabbing a bit of lily of the valley scent on her neck and wrists before donning her blue velvet wrapper.
Taking a seat at her dressing table, she combed the tangles from her hair she had forgotten to plait the night before.
A pale young woman looked back at her from the mirror, her brows drawn together in worry. She could not very well greet their guests looking like this. She set down her comb and pinched her cheeks. Then she thought of Nash kissing her under the stars and a blush arose on her sensitive skin.
A soft knock sounded on the door and Rhona peeked her head in. “Ye’re up?”
“Aye, I woke early.”
“Just as well.” Rhona opened the door wide and entered. “Yer guests are all awake, too. Lord Ormond and his wife are having an early breakfast before going fer an early morning ride. The countess is up, too, and reminded me that today is the English Christmas Eve. She seemed verra excited about it, saying her Mrs. Platt is to make special pies.”
Ailie started. “I completely forgot! That means the men will be dragging in the Yule log and Emily will need help with decorating.”
“Ye ken,” said Rhona, picking up Ailie’s brush and taking over the job of her hair, “I rather like the English celebration of the Christ Child’s birth. ’Tis proper to have a festive celebration.”
Rhona’s long strokes with the brush were soothing. Ailie closed her eyes, feeling the tension leave her shoulders. “It would not be difficult to welcome the Savior’s birth each year as they do. I just realized that tomorrow is Saturday and the first day of their Christmastide. I expect our friends will want to attend an Anglican church. It will have to be St Mary’s.”
“And then ye’ll all be off to the Parish Kirk the next day?”
Ailie opened her eyes, as she considered the possibility. “Two days of church might be a bit much. Perhaps Will won’t mind if we do not attend this Sunday.”
“He’ll be wanting to please the mistress, so St Mary’s on the morrow seems fitting.”
“Aye, you are right. After all, if Emily were in London, she’d be attending the Anglican church service on Christmas Day.”
George Kinloch stood before the window in the largest of his rooms in Miss Grahame’s boarding house, staring at the stone buildings across the street, as drab as the sky above them. Behind him, the men’s voices faded as his thoughts turned to his family.
Were they getting ready to celebrate Christmas? Would they be in church tomorrow?
His last letter to Helen had been written from Edinburgh on the fifteenth of December, telling her he was leaving the country. If all went well, his next one would be sent from France, encouraging her to come and bring their girls. His sons would remain in Scotland to see to his affairs.
With only two days before his departure, plans were well advanced. Taking his father’s middle name as his surname, he would travel as Mr. Oliphant. His cousin Grant would arrive the night before they sailed, bringing with him a wig. George had agreed to wear it until they were free of Britain.
His conscience did not accuse him of any crime, but he would still be uneasy until they sailed. At least he’d be sailing to a country that had once welcomed him.
The angst he felt was that brought on by the distance that separated him from his loved ones about which he could do nothing.
As he turned to face the room, the voices resumed their normal volume.
Hamish was making inquiry of his brother Iain. “Ye followed ’im?”
“Aye, after he passed the boardin’ house, I slipped oot tae see where the mon went. He were the same one that were in the tavern, ye ken?”
“And?” Derek said. “What’d ye learn?”
“Not much. He crossed Shambles Bridge so I cum back.”
Hamish cuffed his brother on the side of the head. “Ye dolt. Ye should’ve followed ’im tae see where he went.”
Muriel was in her element at this time of year. The earl had always insisted on helping her decorate Claremont House, the impressive four-story edifice in London that he had purchased for her, which was still her home.
The moment the kissing bough dangled from the entry hall chandelier, he would sweep her into his arms and kiss her soundly. “We must christen it properly, my love.”
She remembered the tradition with great fondness. That they had never had children of their own was a source of deep sadness, particularly at Christmas, but the earl made up for it by inviting all their nieces, nephews and cousins for the holidays. It was one of those cousins who now had the title and lived in the family’s country estate.
Rhona bustled about Muriel’s chamber, folding her nightclothes and straightening the bed. “There’s a fine breakfast waiting fer ye this morning, my lady. Ye’ll need yer strength if ye want to participate in everything the mistress has planned.”
“I don’t wonder there will be much to do since Emily tells me she has been busy planning for Christmas for quite some time.”
“Aye, she has. Fer the now, the greenery sits in piles in nearly every room of the house just waiting to be hung. Three footmen stand ready to assist. Early this morning, the mistress went to the orangery to cut the flowers she wants fer the table. Even the kitchen’s to be decorated.”
“I’m certain Mrs. Platt won’t mind helping. She always decorates our kitchen at Claremont House with a great deal of aplomb.”
“Martha will be grateful. She has never done it afore and she has taken a liking to your Mrs. Platt.” The maid paused in her work and turned to face Muriel. “I fergot to tell ye the master has arranged for sleds so all of ye can slide down the snowiest hill.”
Muriel smiled to herself. “My charges will certainly look forward to that. They’re an adventurous lot.”
Rhona laughed. “Aye, my lady, and Mistress Ailie is surely one of them.”
In the dining room, Muriel wished everyone a good morning, noting, for the first time, Aileen was not sitting between the Powell twins.
Did this break from their happy threesome reflect some change in their relationship?
She took the seat adjacent to Emily and was about to ask for coffee when a footman approached and inquired if he might assist with her choices. “Thank you, my good
man. Indeed, you may. Eggs and biscuits would serve. And some hot coffee post-haste.” The footman dipped his head, poured her coffee and went to the sideboard.
Muriel reached out to pat Emily’s hand. “How are you this Christmas Eve morning, my dear?”
Emily placed her other hand on her slightly rounded belly, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I am splendid, Muriel. This morning, I felt the baby quicken for the first time!”
From the other end of the table, William lifted his coffee in toast. “The bairn is a braw lad.”
“Or lass,” said Emily with a teasing smile directed at her husband.
“Lass, definitely,” insisted Aileen, winking at her sister-in-law. The good-humored exchange between the three of them brought a smile to Muriel’s face. Her friend had found a good man and a good home.
The footman returned, setting a plate before her. The smell of hot biscuits wafted to her nostrils. “Excellent.”
From across the table, whichever Powell twin it was gave her a broad grin, his straight white teeth on display. “And how fares the countess this morning?”
Surely that smile had to be Robbie’s. “I am quite well, thank you, but don’t be expecting me to go sledding with you, young man.”
“No matter that, Muriel,” came his reply, accompanied by a smirk. “As soon as the kissing bough is up, I’m claiming a kiss.”
Muriel took a sip of her coffee. “I expect that will be the pinnacle of my day.”
“Speaking of our day,” said William, “once we have dragged in the Yule log from the shed and helped Emily to decorate the house, those of you who wish may adjourn to a nearby hill to try our skill with a sled, Muriel and Emily excluded, of course.”
“Thanks to our deer-stalkers,” Emily said, “we’ll have a special Christmas Eve dinner tonight of roast venison. And my sister-in-law has graciously agreed to play the pianoforte for us in the parlor afterward.”
“English Christmas carols and hymns of the season,” put in Ailie, adding with enthusiasm, “I’ve been practicing!”
Both Powell twins grinned at the pretty girl, but it was Nash who said, “I shall look forward to that.”
Robbie took hold of the heavy birch log. Together with Nash, William and Nick, he heaved it onto the sled where it landed with a loud thud. Tara and Ailie, who had come to lend their encouragement, clapped their hands.
Nick stood back, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “That log’s as heavy as my best bower anchor.”
“Ain’t light,” observed Robbie.
William picked up the large loop of rope at the head of the sled and glanced at Robbie and Nash. “How about if Nick and I pull while you two push from the sides?”
Robbie and the others agreed.
William said, “There’s enough snow on the ground to help us, but ’tis all uphill.”
Nick laughed. “You would have to remind us of the hill.”
Robbie stared down at the giant birch log William’s men had dried, stripped of bark and cut to fit the fireplace. Now, they had only to get it there. He and Nash took the sides of the log and began to push. Tara and Ailie stood to the side urging them onward.
Nick and William took hold of the rope at the front of the sled and began to pull. “My men could have brought in the log,” said William, “but where is the fun in that?”
“Indeed,” said Nick, “I always thought hauling in anchors to be ‘fun’, too.”
From the side, Tara laughed. “’Twill do you good.”
Robbie gave the log a shove. “This might be my only chance to add ‘dragging in a Yule log’ to my list of skills.”
Ailie rolled her eyes.
“A list that is doubtless in desperate need of additions,” tossed in Nash. Robbie was glad his brother could jest given the serious nature of their recent conversations. Until this assignment for Sidmouth, they had always enjoyed doing things together.
“Put your backs into it men!” William shouted.
With many grunts and groans, they pulled and pushed the heavy log up the hill. Once, it had threatened to slip away on a patch of ice, but they recovered it and pushed on. Though he might have chosen another activity for Christmas Eve morning, Robbie enjoyed the camaraderie of his brothers and Will spurred on by the cheers of Tara and Ailie.
Eventually, they reached the top of the hill. By that time, Robbie was wiping his brow. His cravat had begun to feel like a constricting snake around his throat.
“Make way for the Yule log!” William shouted when they arrived in front of the house. Like the rest of them, their host was breathing hard.
The front door opened and Emily stepped out with the butler, who appeared quite beside himself to see his master and some of his guests sweating as they lifted the birch log from the sled and placed it on the long runner Emily had provided for them.
“It’s a magnificent log!” exclaimed Emily, welcoming them into the house. “Come see, Muriel!”
Robbie and his companions grunted as they lugged the log into the parlor and lifted it onto the grate. Basking in the smiles of their hostess and the countess, Robbie and the others stood before the great log, admiring their achievement.
A surge of pride coursed through Robbie. “By God, we have done it!”
The rest of their group gathered around, applauding. Hugh slapped William on the back. “Great job, my friend!”
“No thanks to you,” William teased.
“You wound me,” said Hugh. “I would have offered to pull the sled behind the worthy mount you gave me, had you but asked. However, I can see you meant to do without such help.”
William smiled. “I did, didn’t I?”
Now that the log was in place, Robbie thought it was time to light it. “Shall you put flame to the Yule log, William?”
“Aye.” With a look of regret, he told Emily, “We don’t have the bit of last year’s log to use, as tradition requires, but next year we will.” He turned to the butler. “Lamont, can you take it from here?”
The butler bowed. “I will see it done, sir.”
Robbie stifled a laugh at the serious tone of the butler when everyone else was in a jovial mood. “Do we next hang greenery?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” said Emily. “That is just what we should do. The ladies and I will supervise. Pick a room, Ladies! The parlor where we stand is not the only room to be decorated. We have the dining room, the library, the study and even the kitchen. Whatever greenery is left over will go into your chambers. That way, the whole house will smell of the woods and Christmastide.”
Robbie gave The Grand Countess a lopsided grin. “Be sure they hang a kissing bough, Muriel.”
“Humph,” came her reply, but he could see a faint smile on her face.
“I have an idea for a kissing bough, Muriel,” said Emily. “And since you have more experience with decorating than the rest of us, why don’t you take this room?”
“As you wish, my dear.” The countess took up her quizzing glass to examine the pile of greens laid to one side. “Dashed lot of plants, Emily, but where is the mistletoe?”
“We don’t have mistletoe in Arbroath, Muriel, but we can still make a kissing bough out of other greenery and some red and white flowers I cut from the orangery just this morning. Thanks to Ailie, we’ve lovely red berries. I’ll leave you a footman to help you.”
“Very good,” said Muriel.
“I’m going to get Mrs. Banks and tackle the kitchen,” said Emily. “I just hope Martha is in a mood to cooperate. Join me when you’re done here, Muriel, and we can have a meeting with our cooks.”
“Excellent idea,” said Muriel. “Else there will be kale in the stuffing.”
Robbie chuckled. He was certain the countess’ dislike for the vegetable was not as great as she made out. He remained in the parlor to see how the ladies parceled out the rooms. Mary chose the library and Tara the study. Kit wanted to be able to go from room to room, sketching, so she chose none.
When Aili
e headed to the dining room, Robbie followed with Nash. Best to keep their friends guessing.
“Wonderful,” chimed in Emily as they departed. “Just ask a footman if you require assistance.”
The three of them stepped into the dining room and Ailie paused, her gaze shifting from the side table to the dining table. “Where do we hang the greens?”
Robbie laughed. “That’s right, ’tis an English tradition.” Hands on his hips, he said, “Well, let’s see. Almost any surface will do, but certainly on the sideboard, down the center of the table and on top of that painting.”
Mirth danced in her lovely eyes. “Do show some respect. You speak of my father.”
Nash went to stand beneath the large portrait. “That is your father? All this time, I’ve been looking at it thinking it was some distant relation. I don’t see a resemblance.”
From where Robbie stood next to Ailie, he could see her father was a formidable man. “It’s there in the chin,” he said with a smirk aimed at Ailie. “Both are stubborn.”
She swatted his shoulder. “Behave, Robbie!”
“You must admit,” Robbie said, “you do have his chin.”
“Aye, I suppose I do, but for all that, my father is a good man and has built some fine ships.”
Nash crossed the room to ask Ailie, “Is there a ladder, per chance?”
Ailie glanced at the footman, standing just inside the large doorway like a statue. With a nod, he departed, saying he’d bring one straight away.
Soon, they were covered in greenery, red berries and white flowers. It was a new activity for Robbie. In London, their mother had always seen to decorating the house on Christmas Eve.
Ailie handed up a hawthorn branch to Nash, who stood on the ladder in front of her father’s portrait. “Ouch!” she shrieked and stuck her finger in her mouth. Robbie thought it a tempting sight. “Mind the thorns,” she warned Nash.
Nash added the hawthorn branch to the pine branches he had already placed on top of the gilded frame. “Thanks for the warning.”
