The Handfasters

by Helen Susan Swift

  We hesitated outside a varnished door on which some long-gone master craftsman had carved the Forres crest, and through which floated the sounds of revelry and music. I took an audibly deep breath.

  “Whatever are you doing?” Louise enquired, and I informed her that it was most fashionable to have colour in one's face before entering a ball.

  “But not like that,” Louise said, and pinched her cheeks so the flush arose.

  I copied her, but with more timidity so my face retained its creamy complexion.

  “Oh my,” Louise said with a disapproving shake of her head. Removing her right glove, she gave me a resounding slap on my left cheek. “There now,” she said with satisfaction, and repeated the procedure with great energy on the other side. “That's much better.”

  Too astonished to scream, I could only stare as Lady Catriona nodded her approval.

  “We all must suffer for fashion, must me not? That was a very sisterly thing to do, Miss Ballantyne.”

  With my face burning and without bothering to thank Louise for her kindness, I followed directly behind Lady Catriona as she pushed open her own door and swept into the upstairs room.

  I did not step far in, for I had to stop and stare. The upstairs room was vast. It must have extended the entire length of the house, with an elaborately plastered ceiling and an array of windows that stretched along two entire walls. Crystal chandeliers splintered their light onto panelled walls, while a fire of near mediaeval proportions was bright in the fireplace.

  All these details, of course, mattered nought compared to the company, and here Lady Catriona's guests excelled anything that I had seen before, and most that I have seen since. I mentioned the butterflies and beaus on the turnpike, but they were only a shadow of what waited in that upper room. I may have seen the cream of the company in Badenoch, but until that evening I was a baby in sophisticated company.

  My first impression was of scarlet and feathers, with the occasional military kilt and sporran thrown in. I grew up deep in the heart of the Highlands, but I had never seen kilts like them before and the sight made me stifle an unladylike and very impolite giggle. Wherever did they get their ideas about Highland dress? I must have gaped at the tall feather bonnets and over-elaborate sporrans, the pointless plaids and cairngorm-decorated dirks that were about as Highland as they were Chinese, but I was also awed by the overall sense of splendour.

  Nevertheless, I did think that the wearers of these exotic costumes more than made up for their strange appearance. To a man they were tall, while those who were not young and handsome were dignified and imposing and all were military enough to frighten Bonaparte. I could feel Louise drawing herself taller, even as she arched her back and put on her most imperious expression.

  “My, my,” she said softly, “what a delicious display of officers. Now you follow my lead, young Alison, and we can find a fine husband for you.”

  “Husband?” I said, or rather squawked, for I am sure that my voice rose a round score of octaves, “I did not come here for a husband!”

  Louise's look was a mixture of astonishment and amusement, and once again she wielded that fan of hers, closing it and poking it sharply against my arm. “You did not come here for a husband? My dear, dear cousin Alison, pray tell me for what other reason you would possibly attend Lady Catriona's ball?”

  I could not answer that I was only here for the dancing, and because Aunt Elspeth had decided that I should go, so I gaped at her with my mouth open instead.

  “Exactly so,” Louise chose to take my silence for agreement. “So let us dance.”

  And so we did.

  I have danced in many fine places since, but I will always remember that night as we bid a fond farewell to 1811 and welcomed the infant 1812. And what a year it was to prove, but of course we did not yet know that as we pirouetted and bowed and whirled away the night in a riot of bright colours and flashing shoulders and skirling kilts.

  “You dance uncommonly well, miss … miss … I am sorry, but I do not know your name?”

  My companion of the moment was as tall as any guardsman, with dark hair fashionably ruffled and a scarlet tunic that did nothing to conceal white breeches so tight they could have nearly have been painted in place.

  “Nor I yours, sir, for we have not yet been formally introduced,” I said, somewhat stiffly, for I was unused to such forward behaviour from a man posing as an officer and gentleman.

  “Well now, that's an easy matter to put right,” said he, unconcerned at my offhand attitude, and within a moment he had whisked me across the crowded room to the honourable Alexander Forbes who made the necessary formalities.

  “My dear Miss Alison,” Alexander gave his elegant bow, “may I present my own younger son, the honourable John Forres, lieutenant in the Edinburgh Militia?”

  The exquisite gave an elaborate, if slightly mocking bow.

  “And John, it is my greatest of pleasures to present Miss Alison Lamont, niece of Lady Elspeth Ballantyne, come all the way from Badenoch just for this ball, and some other family business, I believe”

  John Forres gave another bow, so low that I feared, or rather hoped, that his trousers would split and embarrass him in front of the entire company, but the devil favours his own and instead he only delighted everybody with his elegance. He put out his hand but I declined the tease of a kiss and withdrew. Unfortunately my most aloof formality was spoiled when Louise came close and stepped on my trailing gown so I jerked to a somewhat abrupt and very inelegant halt. I am sure that she did it deliberately, the minx.

  “And this is Miss Louise Ballantyne,” Alexander Forres seemed not a whit put out by Louise's forward behaviour.

  The bow was just as low, but Louise did not pull back her hand, and Lieutenant Forres made the most of his opportunity. It must have been a good minute before he rose, but Louise did not mind in the least. There was no mistaking the sparkle in her eyes when she looked at me and no ambiguity in the look of triumph that I was too young to then understand. I learned though, as you will hear, by and by.

  Lady Catriona had hired a small band to play for us, and once we started dancing, we did not stop save to nibble at the table of snacks or engage in light conversation. I cannot remember exactly what we danced, country reels, I believe, and the occasional Highland dance, complete with high screeches and the most intricate of footwork. The waltz did not make its way into Scotland for a year or so, as it was considered most indelicate. Honestly my dears, you have no idea how much hypocrisy ruled our lives, when romantic affairs were considered normal, and only became scandal if they were broadcast in public, yet to wear even a fraction of makeup was to chance being ostracised from all respectable society. Life is so different today.

  Lady Catriona was not conservative in her taste, and soon we were executing a quadrille, with gentlemen and ladies all higgledy-piggledy together in that upstairs room. If I close my eyes I can picture it now, all the swirling kilts and flowing gowns, the sheen of exertion on noble foreheads, the bright eyes and laughing mouths and the shimmer of silk and satin. I can nearly hear the rhythmic drumming of feet on that polished floor and see the reflection of the chandelier on the windows. You might never have heard of the quadrille, a most enthralling dance with complex movements that you youngsters would never enjoy or probably understand, but while we were engaged, that Lieutenant John Forres arrived again, all tight breeches and pride, and seemed intent to partner me for the remainder of the evening.

  A lady cannot object openly, as you know, but she can do her best to make a gentleman's life disagreeable if she so wishes, so I returned his pleasantries with formal disdain and rejected his advances with a politely cold shoulder.

  “My dear Miss Alison,” he said at length, stepping back, “I do hope that I have done nothing to offend you? Why, in the Peninsula the society ladies were falling over themselves for only a whisper of our company…”

  “Why, Mr Forres! Were you in the Peninsula? How brave of you!” Louise had app
eared like a perfumed ghost, and without a by-your-leave she stepped between us as if she were taking a French prisoner from a battlefield.

  Lieutenant Forres only looked surprised for a moment, and then he proffered his arm, which Louise accepted with a sidelong smile that I would have loved to have removed, if I were not so much of a lady.

  Now, I had no great liking for the dashing Lieutenant, but even then I knew when I was being insulted, and I resolved to strive with Cousin Louise for his attention. For the remainder of that evening we competed for the favours of John Forres, and he lapped up our attention like a cat licks up the top of the cream. When he was not dancing with me, he was exchanging small talk with Louise, and when she was not whispering grave secrets behind her fan, she was watching us with her face green tinged with envy and those slanted eyes as malicious as a slighted politician.

  “He's far better suited to me, you know,” Louise told me as we circled around each other in one of those devilishly complicated quadrilles.

  “I believe that he spoke to me first,” I gave back, as sweetly as any serpent and we exchanged venomously insincere curtseys and parted, with John Forres smiling on us both indiscriminately. The smile I could thole, but when his hands followed his too-bold eyes I withdrew again, much to Louise's amusement.

  “La, Lieutenant Forres,” she said, “I do believe that you have scared the child. My cousin Alison is far too young for such adult pleasures.”

  “And you, madam, are not?”

  “Indeed, sir that would entirely depend on the owner of the hand.” Louise invited shamefully, but Lieutenant Forres acted more of the gentleman than I had expected when he merely smiled.

  Louise did not appear pleased. “La, sir, but I believe that you are nothing but a tease.”

  “La, madam, but I am the best judge of my own actions.” He withdrew for a space, and Louise's eyes wandered to the door which had opened to allow a small and compact group of men to enter.

  I have few gifts in this world, but I am able to determine atmosphere, and as soon as these men walked into that room, I felt a shift. It was nothing tangible, nothing that I could put my finger on, but I knew that something had changed. So did Louise, of course, and she was pressing forward to see what was happening and what she could gain from the alteration.

  “Who are these men?” I whispered to Alexander Forres, who had moved to my side like a guardian sheepdog to his prize lamb.

  There were four of them, and although two wore uniforms, and two did not, there was no disguising the essential militariness of them all. Perhaps it was the compact way in which they stood, or the quiet fire in their eyes, but they did not look out of place among the kilties and the scarlet jackets. I did not recognize their uniforms but that was not unexpected, given the amazing array of regiments and units that had been founded to fight Bonaparte's never ending war.

  “They are French prisoners from the castle,” Alexander Forres told me quietly, “out on parole. Some are allowed freedom from their confinement and Lady Catriona always invites a few to the Hogmany ball.”

  “But they are the enemy,” I did not hide my bewilderment.

  Alexander's smile contained only fatherly tolerance. “My mother, Lady Catriona, insists that we have been friends with the French far longer than we have been enemies, and we shall be friends again just as soon as the warfare ceases.” His laugh seemed to mock the entire edifice of society. “Anyway, Miss Alison, they are jovial company and they add a little spice to the evening, rather than just the usual manoeuvring for husbands, wives and fortunes.”

  I am still not sure if he was laughing at me, but Alexander was such a gentleman that it was even a pleasure to be teased by him. I accepted his comments with a smile and watched as the Frenchmen strolled in. Now you must understand that for most of my life, this country had been at war with France, and we had been brought up to regard Frenchmen as ogres that ate babies and spread republicanism, while Bonaparte was the devil's cockerel with a Corsican accent. However, we were also imbued with French culture, so that anybody with any pretence at education spoke French, while French furniture was never out of fashion, so you must excuse my mixed feelings when this quarter of Frenchmen entered our ball.

  On first sight I must admit to a certain disappointment. They were neither one thing nor the other, neither ogres nor icons of fashionable culture. I could not see a single forked tail or cloven hoof, although I confess that Louise was far more adept at investigating for such things, but neither did they bring the place alive with new ideas, indeed they looked decidedly ordinary. In different clothes they could have fitted into the ranks of the kilties, or the militiamen.

  It was more intriguing to watch the reaction of our soldiers. While the militia were a bit stand-offish, the Highlanders welcomed them like brothers in arms, extending a true hand of friendship and inviting them to make free with Lady Catriona's whisky, brandy and claret. The French responded in kind, so that there was uproarious laughter from at least one quarter of the room.

  Louise, of course, scented new men and hurried elegantly toward them, while Lady Catriona sat in her chair in the corner of the room, quietly smiling under her turban. She had created the scene and she obviously intended to enjoy it. Ordinary conventions did not concern her ladyship, so long as the basic proprieties were observed. Other ladies, as you will see by-and-by, were not quite so easy natured.

  Well, that evening passed in a haze of swirling tartan and emptying glasses, of sparkling conversation and hectic flirting, of rustling silk and drumming heels on the dance floor, until somebody announced that it was almost midnight. Of course we all scurried to the decanters and then observed the sacred minute, standing with our brimming glasses in hand while Alexander counted off the seconds to the beginning of the New Year.

  I can picture the scene as if it were yesterday, rather than sixty, or is it seventy-odd years ago? All the brave uniforms standing to attention with the eager young ladies at their side, Louise gripping the arm of John Forres as if he were a prize she had won at the local fair and the tallest and most personable of the Frenchmen edging ever closer with his lips slightly open and his eyes burning with Gallic ardour.

  “Ten … nine … eight…” Alexander held an enormous gold watch in his hand as he solemnly intoned the seconds, as if we could not see the massive grandfather clock only a few feet away.

  “Seven … six … five…”

  Louise gave a little scream of anticipation and sipped at her ratafia. That was a light wine, dears, favoured by ladies, and Louise could try so hard to appear ladylike when it suited her purpose. Society does not favour ratafia nowadays, which is a shame; it was an innocuous kind of drink and rarely did much harm.

  “Four … three … two…”

  There was a tremendous sense of anticipation in that room, with everybody holding their breath. Except Louise, who was holding the arm of John Forres and giggling as the Frenchman whispered something in her ear.

  “One!” Alexander raised his glass. “Happy New Year everybody, and let us hope that 1812 is successful and prosperous,” I could see that he wanted to ask for a victorious conclusion to the war against Napoleon Bonaparte, but for the sake of politeness to the French officers present, he refrained. “And let us all hope for a lasting and just peace.”

  “Success, prosperity and peace!” The gathering intoned solemnly, but when Louise lifted her lips for a New Year kiss, John Forres slipped free, grabbed hold of me and planted a flattering, but extremely unwelcome, kiss square on my mouth.

  I must have screamed at this unwarranted assault, but it is difficult to make any real noise when somebody is effectively covering your lips. Louise, however, was not so restrained and she made some very unladylike remarks just as John released me. I looked at her in astonishment while the colour rushed to my face.

  “Madam…” She had her hands on her hips and her head thrust forward so she looked just like one of the hens that scratched around the townships alongside the Cald
er River in Badenoch.

  “Yes,” I said. I was unhappy at the assault, but secretly quite pleased that a gentleman, of whatever character, had chosen me over my forward and quite beautiful cousin.

  “Madam…” Louise repeated, but stopped. After all, what could she say? Turning with a fine show of indignation, she quite accidentally twisted the heel of her shoe, slipped, and crashed against me.

  We must have made a fine display as we fell in a flurry of skirts and tangled limbs, with our legs a-flailing legs and arms waving uselessly. Strangely it was the tall French officer who was first to offer assistance, raising Louise with a grace I still find it hard to fault, while John Forres merely smiled and thrust out an ineffectual hand while her Ladyship frowned beyond her fan.

  “Whose fault was that?” Her Ladyship's voice had lost any pretence at amiability as the concordance quietened.

  “I believe it was Miss Alison,” Louise gave voice, rubbing at her ankle as the French officer directed her to a chair. She looked at me balefully.

  “Then Miss Alison should leave the company,” Lady Catriona pronounced. “Send for the sedan chair. The chairmen can carry her to Lady Elspeth's town house immediately. I will not tolerate such disgraceful scenes in the Forres Residence. This is Edinburgh, Miss Alison, and we have no place for your wild Highland ways.”

  Chapter Two

  You may be used to the Highlands being lauded and Highlanders being treated with respect equal to people in any other part of this kingdom, but you must remember that this was 1811, before Queen Victoria chose to bless Caledonia with her presence. There were still memories of the rising of 1745, and in my time, Highlanders were reckoned as of no more account than Irishmen or Africans. They called us Donalds, among other less savoury things, and told tall tales of our backwardness and savagery, despite the many thousands of Highlandmen who were even then fighting their wars for them. For Lady Catriona to remark on my Highland blood was tantamount to a terrible insult, and one to which I could not reply for it was true. I had been born and raised among the mountains of Badenoch and was as Highland as peat.