Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  She smiled, closed her eyes, and gave in to a pleasant afternoon nap.

  He pushed against the throng of men, women, and children to hear the gentleman on the stage. The stink of unwashed bodies and a hum of excitement filled the air. He pulled off his waistcoat as the sweat pooled beneath his collar. The speaker’s words of reform and the right to vote echoed in his head and filled him with purpose.

  A woman holding a small child sidled up next to him, a smile on her lips. The pair made him think of his own wife and the family they would have. The wee girl had the same dimples as her mother. The babe waved a hand at him, and he caught her chubby fingers in his. Grasping her mother’s braid in her other hand, the babe sucked heartily then began to cry as the noise increased. She squealed as the crowd jostled the pair and reached toward him. The pressure of bodies behind them intensified, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. Something wasna right.

  Screams pierced the air, and he turned to see the cause of such panic. Mounted Hussars stormed the assembly, the rhythmic whisk of blades slicing the air. A glistening black beast, eyes rolling, lunged forward then reared. Flying hooves pawed at the scrambling bodies and struck the infant in the head. The mother screamed, her arms reaching for the falling child.

  He pushed the frantic woman away from the soldier’s sword then threw himself on the tiny, lifeless form. “Ye bloody bastards,” he cried as the horse reared once again.

  This time its full weight landed on his back. The crack of bone echoed in his ears. Excruciating pain exploded along the length of his body. From the ground, he saw a jumble of feet and hooves, all moving in different directions. A man’s face—contorted in pain—trampled by the frantic feet escaping the massacre. He tried to hunch over the child still beneath him, protect it from the stampede, but his body had been flattened. An image flashed of the local butcher pounding a tough piece of meat.

  A blow to his head…a piercing throb… Then the world spun in slow motion. The shrieks of victims and harsh shouts of the soldiers came from far away now. Another image. His sweet wife’s face.

  “I’m so verra sorry, Lissie…” he whispered.

  ***

  Gideon entered the library, still warm from the afternoon sun. Mama sat before the fireplace, the large wingback almost swallowing up her small frame. She had aged in the last year. A few streaks of gray now blended with the rich auburn hair. Her eyes were closed, but her lids fluttered as if dreaming. The sapphire ring, a wedding gift from her husband that matched her eyes, glinted and winked as her slender fingers gripped and released the armchair. Her head rocked back and forth as Gideon squatted down next to her. His fingers covered hers, and he squeezed to wake her from such troubled sleep. The touch sent a jolt through her body. Her eyes snapped open.

  “No!” she gasped, her gaze fixed on the darkened hearth.

  “Mama, you were dreaming.” His thumb stroked the top of her hand, his voice soft and soothing. “Look at me, Mama, and you will see.”

  Maeve slowly turned her head, tears now spilling down her cheeks. “Oh Gideon, it was ghastly.”

  “What did you dream?”

  “It was not a dream.” Her voice faltered. “Your cousin, Ian, is dead.”

  “What? Did you receive a letter from Scotland?” Gideon had not seen any correspondence from his mother’s family over the last week, and nothing had arrived today.

  “I do not need a letter. I saw it. There’s been a terrible slaughter in Manchester, and Ian was trampled...” She lifted her chin and wiped at her wet cheeks with determination. “You must take me home to my clan.”

  “To the Highlands? You haven’t been there since your wedding.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t just run off to Scotland with my aging mother because of a dream.”

  “Aging?” Her eyes narrowed, anger shining from beneath her lashes. “I have more stamina than most of those mutton-headed females of the ton.”

  He had to agree with her but bit back a smile. “This is folly. A trick of the mind from lack of sleep.” He pressed his lips to her fingers. “Let’s have a glass of sherry, and you’ll feel better after we eat.”

  “Don’t patronize me. Your father didn’t believe in…” She took his face in both her hands, strength growing in her touch and her gaze steady and direct. “It doesn’t matter. Listen to me. It was not a dream but a message of sorts that we are needed at home.”

  “This is our home.” Gideon stood and leaned an arm against the fireplace mantel, worried the past year had also taken a toll on her mind. An uprising in Manchester? There had been rumblings throughout parts of the country but nothing significant.

  “This is your home. Mine has always been in Scotland, regardless of how long I’ve been away.” Her eyes pleaded with him.

  “What about Marietta’s visit in September?” That would end this foolishness, he was sure.

  “It will have to wait until October. You must promise we will leave as soon as you return from London. Or I will go alone.”

  He looked up to the ceiling, hoping for some divine intervention. None came. “I give you my word.”

  Chapter Two

  “Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith.”

  William Shakespeare

  August 1819

  MacNaughton Castle

  Scottish Highlands

  Alisabeth was lost without him. Utterly adrift among the clan members she’d always considered a second family. She had been betrothed to Ian for as long as she could remember. Her family was part of the smaller neighboring clan of Craigg, who pledged fealty to the MacNaughtons. She and Ian had grown up together, played and fought together in the hills and heather, and swam together in the nearby loch. The two clans had celebrated every solstice and Samhain at MacNaughton Castle.

  As part of a long ago agreement to mend the clans, the Craigg had offered his first granddaughter in marriage to the MacNaughton’s firstborn grandson. Though after her grandfather’s death, her parents had given her a choice once she’d been of an age. But she had known the marriage was her destiny from the bond shared since they were children. So Alisabeth had happily said her vows at the age of seventeen. A year later, she floundered in a sea of sympathy, struggling to accept his violent death and grasping at the wisps of her future. Who was she, if not Ian’s intended?

  A few of the Glasgow weavers, who had traveled with Ian to Manchester, had wrapped him in linen and carried his body back across the border. The men had considered it an honor and their duty to bring home Calum MacNaughton’s grandson. He was a respected chieftain, and the weavers were all either members of his clan or lived in nearby Dunderave. It had been two days since Ian’s corpse had been laid out, and Alisabeth could not bear one more word of condolence or look of pity from the constant stream of well-wishers. A continuous flow of ale and food, provided for those family members and close friends keeping watch over his still form, had resulted in numerous ghostly tales and stories of remembrance. Her husband, always so full of life, would have loved hearing the humorous recounts and correcting their exaggerations.

  “Ye need to eat something, Lissie,” said Ian’s grandmother, Peigi, over the boisterous laughter coming from the dining hall. One thick gray braid hung down her back, matching the black and silver stripes of the fine wool arisaid that extended from her shoulders and past her slight hips. She wrapped an arm around Alisabeth’s shoulders, her faded green eyes filled with concern. The other hand absently rubbed the circular silver and garnet clasp that held the long shawl in place. “My grandson would be angry if I let ye waste away.”

  “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 audi
ble. “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.