“Da! Da, I’ve a letter from Maeve.” Ian’s ma came running into the room, waving an envelope. She broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. A hand ran through her thick auburn waves as her eyes scanned the thick vellum. She began to read.
My dearest Glynis,
There are no words to heal a mother’s broken heart. I will not try to write empty condolences. Instead I am coming home. I want to wrap my arms around my sister, feel her sorrow, and let it fall upon my own shoulders. We will cry together and then begin the mending. I will miss the funeral but shall be there in spirit. God keep the MacNaughtons safe until I arrive.
With all my love,
Maeve
Glynis sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. Alisabeth gently removed the letter from her grasp as the tears fell.
“It will be good for yer soul to see Maeve again. It’s been three years since our last visit to Glasgow and almost thirty years since she’s returned to her home.” Peigi sat next to her daughter, stroking her hair.
“Stanfeld wasn’t up to the travel those last few years. And she wouldna leave his side.”
“She willna be breaking her promise.” Glynis sniffed. “She told me she couldna return to the Highlands while he still had breath. Now the man is dead, she is free.”
“Hush, love. Her husband dinna understand us, but he was a good man. His money provided us the opportunity to prosper. And prosper we have.” Peigi hugged her youngest daughter. “Maeve is coming home. Let us celebrate what we can in this dark time, hmm?”
The family all nodded in agreement. The tick of the clock and an occasional sniffle from Glynis were the only sounds for several moments.
“I wonder if she will bring my grandson? He looked more like me each summer.” Calum took his pipe from the small table beside him. He leaned over and tapped it against the hearth, the cold ashes spilling into the burning peat embers. Settling back into his stuffed wingback chair, he filled the bowl with tobacco. “And has he inherited anything else from the MacNaughtons?”
Peigi and Calum’s gaze met and held. Their expressions were sober, as if they shared some long ago secret. A thread of worry needled down Alisabeth’s spine. Why did she have a feeling this visit was more than what it seemed?
Chapter Three
“Truth is always strange, stranger than fiction.”
Lord Byron
Late August, 1819
London, England
“Damnation!” cursed the Viscount Pendleton as the last card sprang up from the small taro machine. “I’ve lost enough for one night.”
Gideon laughed at Nathaniel. He had joined his long-time friend at White’s. It was his last night in London, and he wanted to relax a bit and catch up on any personal or political news. “You realize this is nothing but a sham, an amusement of chance? You could just as easily toss that pile at a willing wench and get more for your coin. Stick with those games that use strategy and employ a player’s abilities and shrewd observational skills.”
“So sayeth the ever-rational Earl of Stanfeld. I agree, but you must admit I tend to be a deuced lucky corinthian.”
“Not tonight.”
“And you, my friend, always seem to do well when you’re in the mood to play. In fact, I can’t ever remember you losing. It’s almost as if you can see your opponents’ cards.”
“Nonsense, I’m just an excellent judge of character and have a sense whether a man is bluffing.” He slapped Nathaniel on the back. “What do you say we go collect a decanter of the finest brandy and gamble on who’s left standing at the end of the night?”
Pendleton chuckled. “I remember the days when I might have easily lost that wager too.”
“And I don’t think your Eliza would appreciate a sodden husband at this particular time.” Gideon clapped him on the back. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
The viscount grinned. “As if I don’t have my hands full already with that precocious three year old. But at least Althea’s given me practice for my firstborn. She has a ridiculous amount of energy and lack of attention.”
The widowed Lady Eliza had a daughter from her previous marriage. Gideon wondered if he would have been as generous and able to accept another man’s child.
“I haven’t dealt with many children, but I do believe most of them are on the wiggly side.” He wondered what his sister Etta’s child would be like.
They settled into chairs in front of a bow window while Gideon ordered refreshments. As they waited, they remarked on the carriages driving past or pedestrians they recognized—mostly male—on their way to another gaming hell or gentlemen’s club on St. James. A tray arrived with two crystal snifters and a decanter of golden liquor.
“Terrible shame up in Manchester, eh?” Pendleton asked once the brandy was poured.
“Manchester?” Apprehension stirred in his belly.
“The riot. Parliament started this mess, too busy keeping their own pockets filled and ignoring the political unrest. The merchants are calling for equal representation in cities like Manchester. But those same merchants won’t provide fair wages for the skilled artisans or factory workers. The tariffs on grain imports have kept the prices high, which benefits the landowners, but the masses need to eat.
“Too many taxes and the lower classes take the brunt of it,” agreed Gideon.
Pendleton threw back his glass of brandy. “A peaceful crowd at a gathering to listen to a speech on passive reform—women and children were there, mind you. The bloody Tories will drive the working class from reform to revolt if they don’t keep their paranoia under control.”
Gideon’s stomach clenched. “Tell me more, I’m not sure I heard the entire story.” To his shock, he had heard most of it. A few days earlier in his own library. As Pendleton recalled the facts, a pounding began in his head. His mother’s dream had been uncomfortably accurate. But how?
“I read the details in the Times just this morning. Calling it the Peterloo Massacre since it happened at St. Peter’s Fields. At least twenty dead and hundreds injured. I’m sure infection will take more and increase the death toll,” concluded Pendleton.
Lost in his thoughts, battling a now queasy stomach, Gideon missed the rest of the summary. Then a fresh brandy was put in his hand.
“So Stanfeld, what is this I hear about you going to Scotland?”
Gideon pulled his mind from the confusing web now clouding his brain. He’d figure it out later. There had to be an explanation. “My mother is insisting she returns home for a month. Since I need to inspect the mill in Glasgow, I’ve decided to extend the trip to MacNaughton Castle.”
“The Highlands, then?” Pendleton whistled then held a hand to his ear. “I can hear your father through Heaven’s Gate, scratching your name in his black books.”
“It’s the least I can do for Mama after this past year of mourning. And as I said, I have business across the border anyway.”
“My wife’s mother was a Scot. Quite a beauty at one time.” Pendleton’s lips turned up in amusement. “Perhaps you’ll find a diamond of the first water hiding in the heather.”
Without thought, Gideon pulled at his cravat, happy to be on another subject. “That’s my mother’s hope. She’s started a list.”
His friend groaned in sympathy. “I’ve been there, my friend. My condolences.”
“Yet you are happily married. So perhaps the institution’s reputation has been exaggerated.”
“That all depends on the woman. Take Eliza, for example.” Pendleton leaned forward as if warming to his favorite subject. “The sweetest of temperaments but the heart of a warrior when it comes to protecting the defenseless. It’s how I met her, you know. She can make me laugh one moment and boil my blood in the next.
“In other words, the right female may be worth the parson’s trap, but each one brings her own peril to the party.”
“Exactly!”
***
Mid September
Gideon pulled the c
ollar tightly around his neck. Water poured off his hat, down his back, and dripped off his nose. The rain had been unrelenting since they’d left the inn that morning. He hated being imprisoned in the carriage, but he was close to giving in. The greatcoat gained weight with each mile, and his shoulders were beginning to ache. They had made Edinburgh two days ago and would reach his grandfather’s home before the end of the day. He hated this part of the country already. Soggy, dreary, and those blasted thistles. At least the road was holding out—there was so much rock that the mud hadn’t been a problem yet.
With a resigned sigh, he hailed the driver and the wheels sloshed to a stop. He dismounted, tied Verity to the back of the carriage with the spare horse, unbuttoned his capes, and shook them out as he opened the door.
“I knew if I was patient, the rain would eventually drive ye inside. We need to talk.”
Maeve smiled with a smugness that irritated him. He carefully removed his hat and dumped the contents of the rim outside. When he slammed the door shut, the wooden window slats rattled. He had been avoiding this conversation. However, he needed an explanation before they reached MacNaughton Castle.
“I agree. Shall I begin?”
She nodded her consent and pulled a handkerchief from her reticule. “Dry yerself and speak up. This storm is verra loud upon the roof. Has the other carriage caught up with us yet?”
“Almost. Your maid does not seem to enjoy the travel as much as her mistress. She looked half terrified when I informed her you preferred to travel alone today.” He wiped off his face and neck then ran the cloth over his head. “Now, let’s start with your speech. The closer you get to Dunderave, the thicker your brogue becomes.” Had this been true during their visits to Glasgow? He didn’t recall. But then again, the Lowlanders didn’t speak the Gaelic as the Highlanders did.
“It’s in my blood, Gideon. I suppose the more I’m exposed to my kinfolk and clan members, the more I hear it on their tongues… To be truthful, I hadn’t noticed. And I won’t apologize for it or try to hide it.” Her chin jutted out in that familiar way that silently told him she would not give in to this point.
“It was only a question, Mama. It matters not if you say ‘don’t know’ or dinna ken. But I would like to know if Father required you to speak as an Englishwoman.” He had begun to suspect his mother’s life in England had not been easy.
His parents had loved each other, yes, but the late earl had been inflexible in his opinions and stringent with societal rules. What had she gone through as a young girl of eighteen in a foreign country, surrounded by strangers who looked down on her bloodlines and upbringing? He was sure the ton would have presented their false smiles then turned their noses up as soon as the Earl of Stanfeld turned his back. His mother was perceptive and would have known she was seen as an outsider. Yet somehow, she had won their respect and even made valuable friendships.
Maeve sighed. “Aye, he hired a tutor to help me with my diction. It pleased him, and I enjoyed learning the cant. The lessons helped fill the hours with your father gone for days at a time. Then I made friends, had children, and needed no other diversion.”
Gideon nodded and decided to get to the point. “How did you know about the rebellion? I’m not calling your dream a hum, but I can’t credit you as some sort of gypsy fortune teller who can predict our future.”
“Then you explain it to me, please. You said yourself that ye didna hear about the Manchester trouble until the solicitor mentioned it in London. The Times reported the entire event so it’s not gossip.” Her hands were gripped tightly in her lap, fingers entwined, knuckles white. Her voice caught. “And your cousin is dead, leaving a young widow barely married a year.”
His hand swiped over his face, jaw clenched. He prayed for patience. Again. “Perhaps someone on the estate heard rumors, and you overheard a conversation without realizing it.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth. “We know Ian had taken over the mill for Grandfather and went to Manchester on occasion. Perhaps these pieces floated about in your mind and came together in a dream.”
“Perhaps,” she mimicked.
The sun chose that moment to appear, sending bright rays poking through the blinds. Maeve pulled the satin rope and was presented with a view of narrow ridges interspersed with sharp peaks, capped with white and dotted with green. Shadows played light then dark, rolling over the landscape and making the mountains appear alive. She gave a satisfied sigh and leaned back against the cushions, a smile on her lips. Gideon thought she looked years younger.
“Your father may have molded you into his image, Gideon, but half my blood runs through your veins. Now that you have bestowed me with your suppositions, may I tell you what is certain?”
He ground his teeth but moved his mouth up in an attempted smile. “Of course.”
“I have a gift, or a curse, depending how one sees a legacy such as this. Since I was a girl, I’ve had dreams that come true. When Da realized it, he explained they were visions, an ability passed down through our family over the centuries. It often skips generations but appears when needed. I only have these dreams when there is a possibility of changing fate’s course.” She paused. “This is why I needed to come home.”
“But Ian is dead. How did your dream help him? It didn’t alter history or save the lives of those at St. Peter’s Field.” He shook his head. “This makes no sense.”
“Then the vision wasn’t meant to save Ian or the others but someone else. It is yet to be realized.” Her voice was quiet but steady, no pleading for understanding in her tone, no anger at his speculation. Just a steadfastness that proved she spoke the truth. Or believed she did. They sat in silence for some time.
“So we will spend a month in the Highlands, hoping to unravel the mystery and our role in changing the course of history?” He kneaded his forehead with the ball of his palm, wondering what calamities lay in store.
Maeve leaned across the carriage and squeezed his hand. “It will take time for you to accept my visions. I pray I never have another. Och, you may never accept my visions or your own ability. Only time will tell.”
“My ability—”
“There it is.” His mother pushed her entire head out the window and pointed to a tower in the distance. “I hadn’t realized how much I missed it until now.”
When she sat back down, her eyes glistened, a trembling smile on her mouth. He’d never seen her look so lovely. “I will leave you to a private homecoming. It is time for me to return to the saddle.” With a smile, he kissed her cheek. “I’ll reassure your lady’s maid we are close to our destination.”
The next two hours passed quickly. With the rain gone and his clothes only damp, the Highlands spread out before him like an illustration in a book. The hills seemed to pile one upon another, sometimes poking through clouds, while mist crept around and between the hollows. Below, the deep valleys were lush with clear, fast-running streams running along their bottom. Much to his surprise, Gideon found the terrain rugged but beautiful in its stark simplicity. The land beckoned him, drew him in, and he had the urge to spur Verity into a gallop and explore what was in the nearby copse or over the next ridge.
Gideon had been ready to dislike this country, and he had at first. But now its essence seemed to swirl around him, gently pushing him to notice the vibrant contrasting colors, the earthy smell of rich soil and pungent pine, the chatter of red squirrels, and screech of golden eagles or peregrine falcons. It was a landscape that stood proud in its history, not apologizing for its irregularities or unpredictable weather. His mother had been shaped by her birthplace.
“Gideon! Gideon look,” Maeve called from the carriage, pointing to the narrow winding path ahead. “We’re almost there.”
He urged Verity back and rode alongside the carriage as they made their way up the incline, listening to his mother explain about this crumbling structure or that decaying wall. A rectangular stone keep stood above them, a round tower built into its far north corner, overlooking th
e countryside. The edifice loomed over a courtyard and a group of people waving and shouting. Two Scottish deerhounds lounged beneath a rowan tree, letting out an occasional bark. They were not close enough to discern faces or hear words but Gideon grinned. He’d recognize his grandfather’s tall, dark form from any distance. His grandmother would be clucking and calling their names.
A deep longing swept over him, an inexplicable need to belong to these people. As the voices grew louder, and his name could be heard in the excited prattle, he found himself happy to have come. It must have shown on his face.
“You dinna regret the trip,” his mother said cheerfully as wheels crunched the gravel and slowed to a stop. “I’m glad.”
He barely had time to dismount before the MacNaughtons descended upon them with hugs and tears and slaps on the back. He and his mother didn’t have time to answer one question before another was asked.
“How were the roads?”
“Did ye catch any rain?”
“Ye must be parched.”
A shrill whistle pierced the air and silence descended. Calum looked smug as he withdrew his fingers from his mouth. “My daughter and grandson need to catch their breath and refresh themselves before we ambush them like a pack of wolves.”
A murmur of agreement, a brief hush, and the cacophony began again. A chuckle grew and spilled out of Gideon, joined by Calum. “I see nothing has changed.”
“Och, lad, why would ye want that?” He nodded toward the keep door. “Welcome to our humble abode. It’s not much to look at these days, but it’s belonged to our clan since the fourteenth century.”
MacNaughton Castle was everything he expected of an ancient keep. Outside, the thick walls dominated the architecture with narrow slits for light on the lower floors and larger windows above. Compared to the elegance of Stanfeld Manor, MacNaughton Castle was unembellished and solid. It reminded him of Calum MacNaughton. He loved it.
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