Once Upon a Christmas Past

by Regan Walker

  Christmas had always been special to him, this one even more so with Ailie beside him. William and his sister had graciously agreed to attend church with their Anglican friends where, he assured them, Reverend Bruce would undoubtedly welcome them all, “even the Scots Presbyterians.”

  “After all,” quipped William as he struck off down the same road Nash had traveled before, “we’re all Jock Tamson’s bairns.”

  Nash raised a brow to Ailie. “Jock Tamson?”

  “’Tis a Lowland Scots’ expression. ‘Jock Tamson’ is our way of referring to John Thomson, the minister of Duddingston Kirk in Edinburgh. He refers to his congregation as his bairns. Because he is well loved and well connected, the expression has spread to other parts of Scotland. It just means we are all one in the sight of God.”

  “Ah,” said Robbie, “I like that. No reason we can’t observe the day together as long as we begin in one church or the other, hmm?”

  Ailie directed a winning smile at Robbie. Nash experienced a pang of jealousy, as he always did when she gave her attention to his twin. He had hoped Robbie had given up his quest for the Mistress of the Setters, as he called her, but with Robbie, one never knew.

  Nash did not want to disturb the mood by advising William that even though the Powell family attended an Anglican church, they were also Methodists. Their French mother, formerly a Catholic, had accepted the teachings of John Wesley and passed them along to her then growing family.

  “Will you mind missing your own service tomorrow?” Nash asked Ailie. William had told them since tomorrow was Boxing Day, they would keep the English tradition of giving gifts to servants and baskets for Arbroath’s poor, and not attend the Parish Kirk’s Sunday service.

  She shook her head. “One day of the week for worship together is good. Besides, no kirk will be celebrating Christmas tomorrow.”

  The town, now familiar to Nash, somehow looked different with the snow falling. They walked on, passing the harbor, and a cold shudder of alarm coursed through him when he realized St Mary’s was located at the bottom of High Street, one street away from Marketgate where Kinloch lodged and a short distance from the harbor and the Panmure.

  All too close in proximity for his comfort.

  He exchanged a look with Robbie, seeing the discomfit on his twin’s face. What if Kinloch was walking the street with his guards and happened to see them? Would they be recognized in a gentleman’s clothing? He wondered, too, if anyone attending the service would remember him or Robbie from their afternoons spent in the taverns. He comforted himself in the knowledge that the vast majority of Scots were Presbyterians, like Ailie and William. Thus, it was logical to suppose that Kinloch’s religious affiliation would be as well.

  But, as they entered the church, Nash realized he had been wrong.

  Brushing snow from his greatcoat, he happened to look over his shoulder and glimpsed Kinloch sitting in the last pew flanked by his guards. He wore the same commoner’s garb, however, the hat was gone. Apparently, when the men in the church removed their hats, Kinloch did as well. The baldpate Nash had always assumed was covered by the too large hat was now on full display. Kinloch’s gesture of respect had to make his guards nervous. Their furtive glances around them suggested as much.

  With their two older brothers and Hugh, who was also dark-haired, Nash and Robbie would not go unnoticed. William, too, was tall. So it was not surprising the five tall men and their ladies drew many interested glances as they moved toward the vacant front pews.

  When he was halfway down the aisle, Nash removed his hat. As he waited for their group to file into the pews, he spoke into Robbie’s ear. “Kinloch is here. Last row on the right.”

  Robbie nodded but didn’t turn.

  All through the service, Nash tried to focus on the hymns they were singing and the Christmas message, but the feeling he was being watched, that eyes bored into the back of his head, made that impossible. A glance across Ailie to Robbie told him his twin was experiencing the same unease.

  Ailie sat close so that Nash could feel the heat of her through her cloak. A sudden desire to protect her seized him. He didn’t want her mixed up in this; he didn’t want Kinloch’s rough guards aware of the Stephens or their shipyard, yet they had only to ask to learn the shipyard’s location. At least tomorrow Kinloch would be gone. Nash prayed the man from Dundee would slip out of Arbroath’s harbor with nary a word said, but a niggling doubt suggested it would not be that simple.

  Once the service ended, they rose to leave. A quick look toward the rear of the sanctuary told him that Kinloch and the men with him had departed, doubtless in haste.

  Outside the church, the snow had stopped falling, leaving the air damp and chill. Kinloch was nowhere to be seen.

  For a few minutes, their group lingered with the other parishioners. The minister, glad to have drawn so large a company of visitors, welcomed them in a hearty manner, wishing them a blessed Christmas.

  Emily introduced her female guests to the ladies of the church, using the proper forms of address. Suddenly they were Lady Ormond, Lady Claremont, Lady Katherine Powell, Mrs. Nicholas Powell and Miss Stephen. Nash and Robbie drew aside as the women of St Mary’s expressed their delight at having so many illustrious visitors from London.

  Nash cast his gaze over the crowded churchyard. “Kinloch and his guards might have gone, but I daresay they noticed us.”

  Robbie scowled. “I am certain of it. Worse, they have observed our friends.”

  “It would take very little effort for them to learn where we are staying. I am concerned our friends are now in danger.” He did not mention Ailie by name, but his stomach tied in knots fearing she could be threatened by one of the rough men guarding Kinloch.

  Robbie nodded. “It troubles me as well.”

  On the walk back to the Stephens’ estate, William said the words Nash had been expecting. “By the bye, one of the men attending the service told me George Kinloch has been proclaimed an outlaw for failing to appear at his trial.”

  With that, Nash despaired of being able to persuade Robbie to let Kinloch go free, for he was now officially a fugitive.

  Chapter 17

  Ailie followed the others through the front door, breathing in the wonderful aroma of the wassail heating on the stove and their dinner cooking. Her stomach growled. “What delicious smells.”

  Footmen stood ready to accept their coats. Nash helped Ailie out of her cloak. She could tell from his distant look he was preoccupied. A glance at Robbie suggested his mind, too, was somewhere else.

  They had spoken little on the walk back from town, making her wonder at the cause. Was it something in the minister’s sermon? “I’m not Anglican, but I thought the service was lovely. Don’t you agree?”

  “What? Oh, yes…” muttered Nash. “St Mary’s is smaller than St Martin-in-the-Fields in London where we attend, but the smaller church made the service more intimate.”

  Certainly it had been an intimate experience for Ailie sitting so close to Nash. For once, she minded not at all a crowded service with bodies pressed close.

  Emily drew everyone’s attention. “In the parlor you will find sherry, brandy and hot wassail to warm you. Dinner should be served in an hour.”

  A footman opened the double doors and, with grateful nods, the couples headed into the parlor.

  Muriel made as if to join them, but took only a few steps before turning back to Emily. “I much enjoyed the walk, my dear, however, a blazing fire and a cup of hot wassail are just what I need at the moment.”

  “You shall have it, Madeira, too, if you like,” offered Will.

  Muriel’s eyes lit up as she sallied forth to join the others.

  Still in the entry hall, Ailie told Emily and Will, “I am glad we are to dine early. I didn’t eat much breakfast, knowing a feast was coming.”

  “Have you ever attended an English Christmas feast?” Nash asked Ailie.

  “Not precisely, but we have roast pink-footed goose quit
e often during the winter.”

  Emily smiled at Will. “I will join you in the parlor as soon as I check on the feast.” She had only taken a step when Will looked up at the kissing bough hanging from the chandelier above them and pulled Emily under it.

  “Before you go, I must have a kiss. Setting the example for the others, don’t you know?” Emily laughed but submitted willingly, bringing a smile to Ailie’s face.

  “Happy Christmas, Leannan.”

  Emily was radiant as she left him to join their plump housekeeper, who appeared in her lace mobcap at the base of the stairs.

  And why shouldn’t Emily be radiant? Thought Ailie. She had a loving husband, a bairn on the way and a house full of happy friends. Ailie wondered if she would ever have those things. She had knowingly chosen a path rare for a woman, becoming part of her family’s shipbuilding enterprise. While she delighted in her work, there were times—and this was one of them—when she wanted more, when she wanted all that a woman who had chosen wisely could have.

  Will motioned toward the parlor. “Shall we?”

  Ailie and the twins followed her brother into the parlor where the Yule log burned brightly and their guests sipped cups of the warm spiced apple drink. A helpful footman held out a tray. Nash took two cups and handed one to Ailie.

  Robbie went off in search of brandy. “I prefer it untainted by honey and fruit juice.”

  Ailie sipped the warm spicy drink. “I do like your wassail,” she told Nash, “but all that dancing around apple trees that went with the drink would have been frowned upon by the Kirk.”

  Nash laughed. “Well, that might have been true at one time but, like the Yule log, the drink has become just another sign of the season.”

  “Today, we’ll dine on your English dishes,” she told Nash, “but on Hogmanay, you’ll dine on those favored by us Scots.”

  “More haddies and kale?”

  His expression was decidedly bleak, but she believed he was only teasing her. “Aye. And cock-a-leekie soup, steak pie, roast salmon and haggis with tatties.”

  “Haggis?”

  “Practically our national dish, ’tis sheep’s intestine, oatmeal and spices cooked in a sheep’s stomach.”

  A grimace of epic proportions emerged on Nash’s face.

  Ailie gave him an indulgent smile. “Do not look so disgusted at our beloved haggis. Rabbie Burns himself thought the dish worthy of an ode. He called those who looked down upon the humble haggis ‘poor devils’, while those who delight in the rare taste he called ‘warriors’.” She began to quote from the poem she had learned as a young girl, “But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, the trembling earth resounds his tread.”

  “I would be willing to try it,” Nash said, bravely she thought. “For you.”

  She laughed. “If you could see the look on your face, Nash, you’d see how unconvinced you appear. You might want to confine your celebration of the New Year to salmon and dessert.”

  His countenance brightened at the word dessert. Teasing him about food had become great fun, but she didn’t want him to dislike anything about Scotland. Perhaps she might encourage him with talk of sweets. “For dessert we’ll have shortbread, Dundee cake and clootie dumpling.”

  “I have had your shortbread and it’s very good, and cake I understand, but I have no idea what a clootie is.”

  “That’s just the cloth in which we cook the sweet dumpling. Emily tells me the dumpling is a little like your Christmas pudding, but not as rich. The one Martha makes is her mother’s recipe made with treacle and served with custard.”

  “I do know what treacle is,” he said proudly, “and I approve.”

  “At last we find common ground,” she teased. “You will like the dumpling. Oh, and sometimes the cook stirs in charms that speak of the future.” She pursed her lips, concentrating. “Let’s see… Finding a coin means wealth; a ring signifies marriage; and a wishbone promises the finder his heart’s desire.”

  He took a sip of his wassail and winked. “Some of those possibilities appeal.”

  “Some are not so popular. A man who finds a button and a woman who gets a thimble are destined to remain unwed.”

  Nash frowned. “I wouldn’t want a button, not since I met you, Ailie.”

  Her cheeks flushed at his words and the intense gaze that went with them. Did he hint at a future together? She took a sip of her wassail. “Nor do I desire a thimble since meeting you.”

  Fortified by the wassail and warmed by Nash’s presence, Ailie was ready for the English Christmas dinner. When their butler announced, “Dinner is served,” Nash offered his arm and the two of them strolled into the dining room with the others.

  On the way Nash, explained that after the Christmas feast they would typically play games, which, if one lost, one had to pay a forfeit. “Such as a kiss under the kissing bough.”

  His seductive smile reminded her of their walk in the snow early that morning. She might have to let him win. It would be the first time she looked forward to losing at anything.

  Nash pulled out a chair for her, whispering in her ear, “I’m just not sure I want to kiss you while others are watching. It would have to be a very proper kiss, which, all things considered, would require great restraint on my part.”

  Having observed Nash in conversation with the Mistress of the Setters, oblivious to all around them, Robbie had taken his leave from the parlor to undertake a reconnaissance of the Stephens’ property. He wanted to see if any of Kinloch’s protectors might be lurking about. Though he couldn’t be positive that he had been followed that day on Marketgate, there was still the matter of that morning when he and Nash had been clearly observed in church.

  Only one of the guards he had seen in St Thomas Tavern impressed Robbie as being astute enough to take note of those sitting around him. That man was the one called Derek whose penetrating gaze Robbie had felt more than once.

  Careful to take cover under an eave or behind a tree, Robbie made two slow circles of the house and shipyard before returning. While he hadn’t noticed anyone, save a stable boy tending the horses, that didn’t mean someone hadn’t been there, silently lurking, making note of the fine estate that hinted at connections to London. Then, too, there were landed Scots who supported the government. Kinloch’s guards might assume the Stephens were among them. Derek would consider all of them a threat to the fugitive he guarded.

  Robbie only hoped that with the Panmure sailing tomorrow, Kinloch’s guards had more important things to consider.

  He entered the house, handed the footman his coat and went first to the parlor to warm himself by the fire, lest he signal to the others he’d been outside. Explanations were bothersome.

  When he finally arrived in the dining room, everyone was already seated.

  Ailie waved to him. “Nash told me you had been detained, so I saved you the place next to me.”

  Robbie slipped into the chair, nodding a greeting to Nash, and gave the Mistress of the Setters a brilliant smile. “There is nowhere else I’d rather sit.”

  Ailie smiled with her beautiful eyes. “A rake’s supreme compliment.”

  “You missed the soup,” said Nash shortly from Ailie’s other side.

  “But here’s the fish, now,” Ailie encouraged. She peered at the silver platter the footman carried. “Cod, I think.”

  “Better late than never, Mr. Powell,” chided Muriel.

  Robbie returned the countess a grin bordering on a smirk. “Do not forget, dear Muriel, we have an appointment beneath the kissing bough.”

  “Humph,” came her reply. “By the bye, Ailie, lovely velvet bows on the chandelier.”

  “Do you like them? Nash and Robbie had the devil of a time getting them up there.”

  Robbie remembered the bow-tying effort. Before it was done, he and Nash had uttered their complete repertoire of oaths. But, for the Mistress of the Setters, no task was too difficult.

  When the roasted goose—of the pink-footed variety—was served, ther
e were many “Oohs” and “Aahs”. Four birds, roasted to perfection, arrived on silver platters, and were carried to the sideboard where two footmen began carving.

  Robbie’s mouth watered. Reconnaissance always gave him an appetite.

  Across the table, Nick’s gaze fixed on the roast goose set before him, a goose surrounded by slices neatly carved. “William, your cook has made our geese a glory to behold.”

  “Even better to eat,” said William. “But I believe it is Muriel’s cook, Mrs. Platt, who is responsible for much of this dinner. Am I correct, Leannan?”

  “Mrs. Platt and Martha worked together on our feast. I have asked them to come to us when dessert is served so that we may properly thank them.”

  “An excellent idea,” said William. “And now that you each have a glass of champagne in front of you, let’s all toast to a Happy Christmas.”

  Robbie raised his glass along with the others. “Happy Christmas!”

  When they had lifted their glasses to the babe, the marquess interjected yet another toast. “Let us drink to the new bairn Emily and William are expecting next spring!” When they had drunk to that, Hugh added, “And to our host and hostesses for a most memorable holiday in Scotland!”

  Robbie raised his glass with the others and Muriel proclaimed, “Hear, hear!”

  For the moment, Robbie wouldn’t think of Lord Sidmouth.

  Oyster stuffing, carrots glazed in orange sauce, asparagus and a winter salad of lamb’s lettuce, watercress and mustard greens accompanied the roast goose. Robbie was in heaven.

  “A splendid Christmas feast, Emily,” pronounced The Grand Countess. “As fine as any I ever had in London.”

  Murmurs of agreement echoed around the table.

  “I could become accustomed to this,” said Ailie.

  It occurred to Robbie that if she went to London with Muriel, she might be there for next Christmas. Robbie had been reluctant to give up the game, but it was now apparent Nash had serious intentions toward the girl.

  Lacking Nash’s proclivity for plants, Robbie had not yet been to see the orangery, so he had to ask, “Did you grow all these vegetables and salad greens in the orangery?”