by Pamela Clare
’Twas she who came to their table.
She glared down at them, but behind the anger, Connor saw something akin to hurt in her blue eyes, as if she knew they’d been talking about her — as if men always talked and tittled about her. From what he knew, she’d inherited the tavern from her father, as her brother was too weak-minded to run it himself. ’Twould be rough on a lass to be the proprietress of an alehouse.
"Tonight, we’ve shepherd’s pie with mutton and a pheasant stew." Her words were spoken with a faint Dutch accent he found charming.
"We’ve a small matter to discuss wi’ you afore we dine, Miss Janssen." Iain drew out his leather coin purse. "I’m Iain MacKinnon. These are my brothers, Morgan and Connor. We’ve come on behalf of Killy McBride to settle his debt to you."
CHAPTER 3
Hildie Janssen looked down at the three MacKinnon brothers.
Did they truly believe she didn’t know who they were? There was no one in Albany who did not know of them and their deeds in the war. They were easily recognizable with their long dark hair and Indian markings. All three of them were big men, taller even than she, their arms thick, their shoulders broad.
Ja, they were handsome men. Even she could see that.
But, in the end, that’s all they were — men.
She frowned. "Why does Killy not come himself?"
Not that she wished to see him again. He’d sat here under her roof drinking her rum and doing his best to make a laughingstock of her.
Iain MacKinnon glanced quickly at his brothers. "He, um…"
The youngest brother, Connor, spoke quickly. "He’s sick, miss."
"Sick with drink, I’d wager." Hildie was no fool.
She had grown up in her father’s bierhal and had been serving ale to men just like the MacKinnon brothers since she was a girl of ten. She’d heard what men said about women when they’d filled their bellies with rum. She’d felt the unwelcome burn of their leering glances and had had to fight off their groping hands since she’d first begun to develop breasts. She’d listened to their sweet words, only to have those words turn sour the moment they realized she wouldn’t lift her skirts for them. She’d learned at a young age how to protect herself, breaking more than a few wayward fingers, grabbing men who touched her by the stones and leading them by their cods to the door.
Now that she was thirty and five, well beyond marriageable age, men spoke sweet words only when they wanted to humiliate her, laughing as they tried to outdo one another with false praise for prettiness she no longer possessed. She knew she was not fair, nor even feminine. She was so much taller and bigger than most women, bigger even than many men, her face plain, her hair beginning to turn silver.
Even so, it hurt to be mocked. And, although her age and appearance made her the butt of men’s jests, that didn’t stop them from trying to get into her bed. The more they drank, the more they professed to love her, the strength of their passion for her a measure of how much they’d had to drink.
Apart from her brother, Bram, she had no use for men.
Killy was the worst of them, sitting at her tables night after night, drinking her finest rum, speaking sweetly to her with his Irish lilt, making her dream of things that could never be. He was older and shorter than she, but he was handsome enough, his skin browned by the sun, the scars on his face giving him a rugged, devilish look she rather liked. She knew he’d earned most of those scars in the fighting with MacKinnon’s Rangers. She’d thought of him as a hero — until he’d begun to taunt her with poetry and nonsensical flattery. He’d meant none of what he’d said, but had merely been drunk and lonely for the pleasures of a woman’s company.
"Nay, miss," the youngest brother objected. "Killy was driven to drink only because he is heartsick for fear he has displeased you. He feels great affection for you."
Hildie felt blood rush into her cheeks, the hurt inside her quickly swallowed by anger. They were teasing her, joining with Killy in a shared jest about her. But she would not allow them to mock her in her own tavern. "That Irish devil! You will stop your teasing now, or I’ll have Bram come and throw you into the snow. I’d have thought the three of you more honorable than this."
The brothers looked at each other, blank expressions on their faces.
"Have we given you offense, miss?" Iain MacKinnon looked confused.
"Do not think to taunt me, for I’ll not be having it — not here, under my own roof. I’ve no use for men’s drunken flattery and lies. If you wish to settle Killy’s debt, that will be one shilling six."
The brothers gaped at each other.
"One shilling six pence?" the youngest said, looking for a moment like he might rise to his feet. "How bloody much rum did that bast — "
The middle brother restrained him.
"One shilling six it is." Iain MacKinnon opened the coin purse, counted out the coins, and placed them one at a time in Hildie’s upturned palm. "He’d have paid it himself, but Haviland has not given him his wages for last summer’s campaigns. None of my men have been paid."
Hildie was not surprised. She’d had more than one British officer bring his men in for food and drink and pay not a farthing for it.
The elder brother finished counting out the coins. "And that settles his accounts?"
"Ja." She ran a finger over the coins, counting. "What will you have tonight?"
Iain MacKinnon answered. "We’ll have both the shepherd’s pie and the pheasant stew. Bring plenty of bread and butter, too, and ale for the three of us."
Big men made for big appetites.
She closed her fist around the coins, gave them a nod, and turned toward the kitchens, only to find Connor MacKinnon following her.
He stopped her. "Miss Janssen, ’tis sorry I am if we left you feelin’ unsettled in any way, but we dinnae lie or jest wi’ you. Killy is undone by his affection for you."
"Bram!" Hildie shouted for her brother, who was carrying firewood in from the woodpile. "I’ll have you thrown out, MacKinnon!"
But MacKinnon was not cowed. "He told my sister-by-marriage that he is cast down for the love of you and would ask you to marry him if he thought you’d consent."
She felt her fist clench, the humiliation of having a man everyone in Albany knew and admired torment her like this almost more than she could bear.
MacKinnon held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I swear to you on my honor as a Scotsman and a MacKinnon that I’m no’ jestin’ or deceivin’ you."
Hildie stared at the big Scotsman, unable to believe him and yet certain he would not swear such a thing on his honor unless it was true. But how could that be? "Killy truly spoke those words?"
"Aye, so he did."
"He…he was not drunk?"
"Nay, miss. He was on the hurtin’ side of the bottle, if you ken my meanin’. What man would lie about such a thing with a poundin’ head?"
Before she could think on this, MacKinnon drew something out of his pocket and held it out for her. It was a plant of some kind.
"’Tis mistletoe." He gave it to her. "’Tis said to possess magic. We believe that if a man and woman kiss beneath mistletoe at Christmas, they’ll wed in the new year. I bring it as a token of Killy’s affections."
Killy had sent this for her?
Hildie stared at it. She heard what MacKinnon said, but her mind could scarcely fathom it. Could all of Killy’s absurd, outlandish, sweet words have been sincere?
* * *
Sarah sat with Annie and Amalie, sharing their memories of Christmas while they stitched gifts for the men, taking advantage of their husbands’ journey to Albany to sew, knit, and embroider without fear of being caught and ruining their Christmas surprises. Cups of hot tea and Annie’s delicious shortbread sat on the table before them. Miraculously, the babies were all asleep. Iain Cameron played with wooden horses on the floor. Artair and Beatan, Iain’s enormous wolfhounds, dozed on the braided rug near the door as if keeping guard. Killy and Joseph were in the barn seeing
to the heavy chores.
"After Mass, we lit candles and placed them in the windows, then set food and drink on the table in case the Virgin should call upon us during the night," Amalie said, speaking of her life in the Ursuline convent at Trois-Rivières, where she’d been raised. "I cannot say for certain, but I believe the Mother Superior enjoyed an extra meal and glass of wine on Christmas Eve."
Sarah laughed, amused by the unlikely image of a stern nun drinking wine on Christmas Eve, the warm winter hat she’d begun knitting for Killy slowly taking shape in her hands.
"In my great-great-grandfather’s time, we didna celebrate Christmas in Scotland. ’Twas forbidden. But that has changed." Annie’s voice took on a wistful tone. "When I was a child, we hung garlands of holly and pine on the banisters, above the hearths, and around the doors and windows. I can still smell it, so fresh and clean, wi’ shortcake bakin’ in the kitchen…"
Sarah’s heart ached for Annie, for her family was gone, her brothers and fathers slain by Highland Scots at Prestonpans, her mother murdered. Now Annie was the only one who remembered those days. "You must miss them terribly."
There was a sheen of tears in Annie’s eyes, but she smiled, her delicate stitches not faltering. "Aye, I do, especially at Christmastide."
Sarah was surprised to realize she didn’t miss her family at all.
You are with your true family now.
Her marriage to Connor had been the beginning of a new life for her, far from the dreariness and loneliness that had been her existence before scandal had compelled her father to send her to the Colonies. Annie and Amalie were more like sisters to her than her four sisters back home, Iain, Morgan, and Joseph the brothers she’d never had.
And Connor…
She loved him more than she’d thought it was possible to love anyone. He had given her so much — his protection, his love, a son — and now she would give him something in return. She had arranged such surprises for him and for her new family that waiting for Christmas was proving to be most difficult, the anticipation almost more than she could bear. On the morning of Christmas Eve, her gifts for the family would arrive. She could scarce wait to see everyone’s faces.
How strange it was to think that she hadn’t known them last Christmas. Now she was one of them.
She glanced down at little William, who slept bundled in a blanket on a pallet of furs beside her yarn basket.
"But what of your memories, Sarah?" Amalie asked. "Christmas must have been splendid at the British court."
"My mother could not bear to be at court and only went when summoned by my grandmother." Her mother, a very strict Lutheran, had found the merriment surrounding Christmas to be sinful. "We spent Christmastide at my father’s estate outside London. Servants decorated with pine boughs, holly, and candles, but what I loved most was the music. They played the grandest music at church, and we all sang together."
"And so shall we," Amalie said with a bright smile. "I do so love your playing."
"Thank you." Sarah felt a rush of joy — and anticipation.
Music had always been her great passion, a passion her mother had tried to squelch. Sarah’s desire to play for more than the thirty minutes a day her mother had allowed her had led to scandal that had gotten her exiled to the Colonies. But how blessed Sarah was now to be the wife of a man who encouraged her to play, to be part of a family that enjoyed her music. She still couldn’t believe Connor and his brothers had brought her harpsichord, a gift from Uncle William, all the way from Fort Edward to the farm.
And it came to her that there was more good cheer and Christmas spirit in this family made up of people who ought to have been enemies — Protestants and Catholics, English and French, Jacobites and loyalists — than there had been in her parents’ wealthy and well-ordered home.
Then she asked the question some part of her had been wanting to ask for weeks. "Does it trouble either of you to spend these sacred days with people who do not fully share your faith?"
Amalie looked up from her needlework. "It is easier for me than it must be for the two of you. My husband and I are both Catholic. It does not upset me that you and Annie are Protestant. That is part of who you are, and I love you both."
Amalie’s answer was as gracious as Sarah had known it would be.
Annie set her sewing in her lap. "I spent my first Christmas Eve as Iain’s wife alone in the cabin on Ranger Island, while he went to Mass wi’ Father Delavay. Then I realized my children would be raised as Catholics. If I didna join in, my husband would be deprived of his wife’s company and my children would grow up confused. Now I pray beside him. I have faith that I am meant to be wi’ Iain, and that is enough for me."
Annie made it all seem so simple.
Sarah found herself smiling. "We shall have a merry Christmas, shall we not?"
As long as Connor and his brothers made it safely home from Albany in time, this would be Sarah’s happiest Christmas ever.
* * *
Morgan and his brothers bided the night in one of the upstairs rooms that Miss Janssen let out to travelers. The fire was warm, even if the room itself was crowded with other men. They woke early the next morning as was their wont and broke their fast together below stairs, sharing a salver of warm bread, cheeses, and sausage and washing that down with ale and cups of hot coffee.
Morgan ate quickly then bade Iain and Connor to take their time. "I’ve a matter to see to in town. I’ll be back afore it’s time to meet wi’ Haviland."
Leaving his pack with his brothers, he slipped his coin purse into the pocket of his bearskin coat and walked out onto Albany’s snowy streets. The cold snatched his breath away, the sun still sitting low in the sky, its weak rays peeking through a break in the clouds. Wood smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread. It was still early enough that the streets weren’t yet busy, a wagon trundling by with a load of timber, a blacksmith’s hammer ringing against its anvil somewhere in the distance.
Morgan made his way through the streets looking for he knew not what. He came upon the bookbinder and was tempted to enter, but he’d already bought Amalie a new book for Christmas. He wanted to give her something more, something that would prove to her what he seemed to be unable to prove — that he loved her.
He crossed the street when he spied a seamstress’ shop, only to find it was not yet open, the door locked, the windows dark. He huddled deeper in his bearskin coat and went on his way until he came upon a mercantile, its window displaying goods from garments to wooden toy soldiers to cook pots. He nudged the door open, the jingling of a bell announcing his arrival.
Warmth rushed against his skin, a fire burning in one of those Franklin stoves against the far wall. The front room was a riot of colors, objects, and scents — wood smoke, rose soap, leather, spices, linen.
He wiped his feet on the mat, glancing about. Bolts of cloth. Ribbons. Tatted lace. Dyed yarn. Coffeepots and teapots. Teacups and saucers. Pots and pans. Dolls and toy swords. Parchment and ink. Shoes and woolen socks. Clothing and blankets. Caps and hats of all kinds. Coffee and candy. Soaps and salves.
The sound of voices came from the back — a woman speaking Dutch, a man answering. Then an older woman stepped out from the back. Tall and well dressed with a ruffled bonnet covering her gray hair, she greeted him warmly, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly when she saw him. "May I help you find something, Mr. MacKinnon?"
He was accustomed to being recognized and gave it little thought.
"Aye, madam, and thank you." But Morgan wasn’t sure what he wanted. "I’m searchin’ for a gift for my wife, somethin’ special."
He found himself telling the woman about Amalie — her sweetness, her quick mind, her love of reading, her beautiful long hair. "She has endured much for my sake, leavin’ the world she knew for mine, forsakin’ her own people to be at my side, endurin’ a fearsome travail to bear me twins."
The matron’s lips curved in a smile. "Twins?"
"Aye
." Morgan couldn’t help but smile back. "Sons."
And then he realized that he’d been rambling on about Amalie to a stranger. "Forgi’ me, madam. ’Tis unseemly to be speakin’ of my wife thus."
The matron gave a nod of her head, her gaze warm, a faint smile still on her lips, and Morgan knew she did not hold his lapse against him. "What do you think she might like? We have chocolates, small bars of scented soap, ribbons."
But Morgan wanted to get Amalie something much finer than candy, soap, or ribbons. Unshaven, wearing moccasins and his bearskin coat, he must surely seem like a man without a farthing to his name. "I’m not a poor man. I’ve some coin."
The matron turned and picked up a tray that sat on a shelf behind the counter. "We have a few silver rings, this lovely silver locket in the shape of a heart, and this brooch with garnets."
